€FH  THE  POETS 


II 

itliSiiii 


THROUGH  ITALY 

WITH 

THE  POETS 


VESUVIUS  AND  THE  BAY  OF  NAPLES 


THROUGH  ITALY 

WITH 

THE  POETS 


COMPILED  BY 

KOBERT  HAVEN  SCHAUFFLER 


"Oh  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South!" 

KEATS 


NEW  YORK 
MOFFAT,  YARD  &  COMPANY 

1908 


Copyright,  1908,  by 

MOFFAT,  YARD  &  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


Published  March,  1908 


IHfe    PRBM1ER1  PRESS 
, .  NEW  5TOE.K  "     '. 


S3/3 


FOREWORD 

ITALY  is  the  land  of  poetry. 

No  other  country  has  so  touched  men  of  genius 
to  their  best  issues;  and  just  as  mankind  has  been 
introduced  to  English  history  mainly  by  the  art 
of  Shakspere  and  Scott,  so  Italy  has  come  chiefly 
to  be  known  and  loved  in  the  lines  of  Virgil,  Dante, 
Shakspere,  Byron,  Shelley,  the  Brownings  and 
their  descendants.  In  every  part  of  the  penin- 
sula the  shades  of  poets  dead  and  gone  hover 
vaguely  about  the  traveler,  and  at  every  turn  of 
the  road  he  is  exasperated  by  some  elusive,  half- 
remembered  line,  until  he  comes  to  long  for  a 
pocket  friend  who  shall  do  for  his  soul  what  the 
potent  Baedeker  does  for  body  and  mind. 

In  traveling  last  year  the  editor  found  this 
need  so  pressing  that  he  determined  to  gather 
compactly  together  the  most  precious  poems  on 
Italy  from  the  different  nations  and  centuries,  ar- 
ranging them  in  the  order  of  a  natural  tour  from 
Verona  and  Milan  across  the  lakes  to  the  Riviera, 
down  the  western  side  through  Florence,  Rome 
and  Naples  to  Reggio,  the  toe  of  the  "boot," 
and  up  the  eastern  side,  thro  Taranto,  Ancona 
and  Venice  to  Asolo. 


vi  FOREWORD 

In  selecting  from  the  elder  poets  the  editor  has 
been  substantially  aided  by  the  three  volumes  on 
Italy  in  Longfellow's  "Poems  of  Places,"  published 
in  1877.  Since  that  year  the  tide  of  travel  has  set 
so  strongly  toward  "the  warm  south"  that  nearly 
all  of  our  contemporary  poets  have  been  inspired 
in  some  measure  by  Italy.  Swinburne,  Aldrich, 
Symonds,  Symons,  Wilde,  Moody,  Woodberry, 
Lazarus,  Weir  Mitchell, — these  moderns  have  been 
portraying  Italy  with  a  constant  growth  in  vivid- 
ness, in  vigor,  in  delicacy,  in  fidelity  and  sensitive- 
ness to  the  real  Italian  atmosphere, — a  growth 
comparable  to  the  rise  of  American  painting 
within  the  last  thirty  years.  But,  of  all  the  re- 
cent works  in  this  volume,  three  poems — "At 
Tiber  Mouth,"  by  Sir  Rennell  Rodd;  Carducci's 
"Monte  Cavo,"  and  "Browning  at  Asolo,"  by 
Robert  Underwood  Johnson — seem  to  the  editor 
pre-eminent  among  modern  poems  of  places. 

The  editor  desires  to  express  his  appreciation 
of  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Gamaliel  Bradford,  Jr. ; 
Miss  Edith  Thomas,  Mr.  Robert  Underwood  John- 
son, Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnams ;  Houghton,  Mif- 
flin  &  Co. ;  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co.,  Charles  Scrib- 
ner's  Sons,  and  others,  who  have  granted  him  per- 
mission to  reprint  selections  from  works  bearing 
their  copyright. 

R.  H.  S. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

FOREWORD v 

ITALY 

PRAISES  OF  ITALY Virgil  1 

To  ITALY  Leopardi  3 

MIGNON    Goethe  5 

ITALY A.  C.  Swinburne  6 

"ITALIA,  lo  Ti  SALUTO" C.  G.  Rossetti  7 

THE  DAISY Alfred  Tennyson  7 

ITALY E.  B.  Browning  12 

To  ITALY , R.  U.  Johnson  13 

ITALIA  Oscar  Wilde  15 

A  SONG  OF  ITALY A.  C.  Swinburne  16 

"DE  GUSTIBUS — " Robert  Browning  19 

VERONA 

VERONA Nicholas  Mitchell  21 

To  VERONA W.  S.  Landor  23 

AT  VERONA Oscar  Wilde  24 

BEFORE  THE  OLD  CASTLE  OF  VERONA G.  Carducci  25 

MANTUA 

MANTUA   Dante  Alighieri  27 

IN  THE  MEADOWS  AT  MANTUA Arthur  Symons  29 

LAKE  GARDA 

SIRMIO Catullus  30 

"FRATER  AVE  ATQUE  VALE" Alfred  Tennyson  31 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

BRESCIA  PAGE 

THE  PATRIOT Robert  Browning  32 

MILAN 

MILAN  Ausonius  34 

THE  LAST  SUPPER William  Wordsworth  34 

LEONARDO'S  "LAST  SUPPER"  AT  MILAN De  Vere  35 

ON  THE  ROOF  OF  MILAN  CATHEDRAL Symonds  36 

MILAN  CATHEDRAL Henry  G.  Bell  38 

ON  MILAN  CATHEDRAL R.  H.  Schauffler  39 

LAKE  COMO 

LAKE  OF  COMO William  Wordsworth  41 

LAKE  COMO Walter  Malone  43 

CADENABBIA H.  W.  Longfellow  46 

LAKE  VARESE 

LAGO  VARESE Henry  Taylor  49 

LAKE  MAGGIORE 

STANZAS   Robert  Southey  52 

TURIN 

MOTHER  AND  POET E.  B.  Browning  54 

THE  RIVER  PO 

THE  Po  Lucan  60 

STANZAS  TO  THE  Po Lord  Byron  60 

THE  RIVIERA 

RIVIERA  DI  PONENTE J.  F.  Clarke  63 

MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  RIVIERA Richard  Leander  66 

THE  APENNINES 

PASSAGE  OF  THE  APENNINES..  .Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  69 

To  THE  APENNINES, William  Gullen  Bryant  69 


CONTENTS  ix 

SAVONA  PAGE 

SAVONA T.  W.  Parsons  72 

COGOLETO 

BOYHOOD  OF  COLUMBUS James  Russell  Lowell  76 

GENOA 

APPROACH  TO  GENOA Samuel  Rogers  78 

GENOA  Aubrey  de  Vere  79 

ON  THE  MONUMENT  TO  MAZZINI.  .  .A.  C.  Swinburne  80 

GENOA W.  H.  Gibson  82 

SONNET  Oscar  Wilde  83 

PAVIA 

CHARLEMAGNE H.  W.  Longfellow  84 

MODENA 

MODENA  Alessandro  Tassoni  87 

GINEVRA   Samuel  Rogers  88 

BOLOGNA 

IN  THE  PIAZZA  OF  SAN  PETRONIO — G-iosue  Carducci  92 

TUSCANY 

IN  TUSCANY Eric  MacTcay  94 

TUSCAN  HILLS Cora  Fabbri  94 

FLOKENCE 

FLORENCE 8.  T.  Coleridge  96 

FOR  AN  EPITAPH  AT  FIESOLE W.  S.  Landor  97 

THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST Robert  Browning  97 

SANTA  CROCE  Lord  Byron  103 

SANTA  MARIA  NOVELLA E.  B.  Browning  105 

THE  OLD  BRIDGE  AT  FLORENCE H.  W.  Longfellow  107 

THE  VENUS  DE  MEDICI Lord  Byron  107 

GIOTTO'S  TOWER H.  W.  Longfellow  109 


x  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE Robert  Browning  110 

THE  STATUE  OF  LORENZO  DE  MEDICI.. J.  E.  Nesmith  112 

THE  DUOMO Edith  M.  Thomas  113 

SAN  MINIATO Oscar  Wilde  114 

IN  SAN  LORENZO A.  C.  Swinburne  114 

FROM  "LOVE  IN  ITALY" J.  H.  Ingham  115 

ARCETRI 

THE  TOMB  OF  GALILEO Walter  Malone  116 

THE  EIVER  ARNO 

BY  THE  ARNO Oscar  Wilde  118 

VALLOMBROSA 

VALLOMBROSA John  Milton  120 

VALLOMBROSA E.  B.  Browning  120 

VALLOMBROSA Ernest  Myers  122 

LA  VERNA 

THE  CONVENT  OF  LA  VERNA B.  W.  Procter  123 

LASTRA 

LASTRA  A  SIGNA Sarah  D.  Clarke  124 

PISA 

IN  THE  PINE  FOREST  OF  THE  CASCINE Shelley  126 

THE  CAMP  SANTO  AT  PISA Aubrey  de  Vere  129 

CAMPANILE  DI  PISA T.  W.  Parsons  130 

PISA:  THE  DUOMO S.  W.  Mitchell  135 

BATHS  OF  LUCCA 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  BATHS  OF  LUCCA.. Lord  Houghton  136 

CARRARA 

THE  HILLS  OF  CARRARA..                     ..John  Ruskin  138 


CONTENTS  xi 

LERICI  PAGE 

LINES  WRITTEN  NEAB  SHELLEY'S  HOUSE.... De  Vere    141 

SAN  TERENZO 
SAN  TEBENZO Andrew  Lang    144 

SAN  GIMIGNANO 
BELOW  SAN  GIMIGNANO /.  V.  A.  Mac  Murray    145 

SIENA 

SIENA A.  C.  Swinburne    147 

THE  VILLA W.  W.  Story    150 

MONTEPULCIANO 
MONTEPULCIANO  WINE Francesco  Redi    153 

LAKE  THRASYMENE 

LINES  ON  LAKE  THRASYMENE.  .  .Richard  C.  Trench  154 

THBASYMENE Charles  Strong  156 

FABEWELL  TO  TUSCANY... John  Addington  Symonds  156 

UMBRIA 
IN  UMBRIA Helen  J.  Sanborn    159 

PERUGIA 
FROM  PERUGIA John  Oreenleaf  Whittier    162 

ASSISI 

THE  SERMON  OF  ST.  FRANCIS H.  W.  Longfellow  167 

AT  ASSISI W.  V.  Moody  168 

FROM  ASSISI Helen  J.  Sanborn  170 

TERNI 
THE  FALLS  OF  TERNI Lord  Byron    171 


xii  CONTENTS 

OKVIETO  PAGE 

AN  EPISODE John  Addington  Symonds  173 

VEII 

THE  DESOLATION  OF  VEII Bessie  R.  Parties  175 

ROME 

ROME Virgil  178 

ROME John  Milton  180 

ROME Lord  Byron  182 

ROME Bessie  R.  Parties  184 

DREAMS  IN  ROME Arthur  Symons  187 

ROMA s.  W.  Mitchell  187 

ROME  UNVISITED Oscar  Wilde  189 

ROME Giosut  Carducci  190 

ROME Arthur  Symons  192 

HILLS  OF  ROME Joachim  du  Bellay  192 

MONTE  CAVALLO A.  H.  Clough  193 

THE  (LELIAN  HILL Bessie  R.  Parties  194 

THE  RUINS  OF  ROME Joachim  du  Bellay  196 

THE  COLISEUM Lord  Byron  198 

THE  COLISEUM Edgar  Allan  Poe  202 

THE  ARCH  OF  TITUS Auorey  de  Vere  204 

THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  OBELISK T.  W.  Parsons  204 

THE  PILLAR  OF  TRAJAN William  Wordsworth  208 

THE  CORSO:  THE  ROMAN  CARNIVAL C.  P.  Cranch  211 

THE  SCALINATA T.  B.  Read  215 

ST.  PETER'S Lord  Byron  218 

THE  ILLUMINATIONS  OF  ST.  PETER'S.  .  Lord  Houghton  220 

ST.  JOHN  LATERAN Bessie  R.  Parties  222 

THE  PANTHEON Lord  Byron  223 

ARA  CCELI Thomas  B.  Aldrich  224 

THE  STEPS  OF  ARA  CCELI Sully  Prudhomme  225 

THE  VATICAN Lord  Byron  226 

EASTER  DAY Oscar  Wilde  228 

Two  GRAVES  AT  ROME F.  T.  Palgrave  228 

FROM  "LOVE  IN  ITALY"  ...  r .......,.../.  H.  Ingham  231 


CONTENTS  xiii 

PAGE 

THE  GRAVE  OF  KEATS Oscar  Wilde  232 

THE  GRAVE  OF  KEATS flf.  W.  Mitchell  233 

THE  GRAVE  OF  SHELLEY Oscar  Wilde  235 

PONTE  SUBLICIO . .  Thomas  Babington  Macaulay  235 

Two  IN  THE  CAMPAGNA Robert  Browning  240 

THE  APPIAN  WAY Aubrey  de  Vere  243 

AUGUST  ON  THE  ROMAN  CAMPAGNA.. Crowninshield  243 

THE  CAMPAGNA  FROM  ST.  JOHN  LATERAN..  .De  Vere  244 

THE  ROMAN  CAMPAGNA flf.  W.  Mitchell  245 

SUNSET  ON  THE  CAMPAGNA Helen  J.  Sanborn  247 

THE  RIVER  TIBER 

THE  TIBER Virgil  248 

THE  RIVER  TIBER A.  H.  Clough  249 

THE  ALBAN  HILLS 

MONTE  CAVO Giosue  Carducci  252 

SPRING  AMONG  THE  ALBAN  HILLS Alice  Meynell  255 

FRASCATI 

AT  THE  VILLA  CONTI W.  W.  Story  256 

A  VISIT  TO  TUSCULUM Richard  Chenevix  Trench  257 

To  THE  FOUNTAIN  AT  FRASCATI Lord  Hanmer  260 

CIVITA  LAVINTA  (LANUVIUM) 

AT  LANUVIUM Rennell  Rodd  261 

LAKE  NEMI 

THE  MIRROR  OF  DIANA Mathilde  Blind  263 

TIVOLI 

TrvoLi J.  E.  Reade  266 

RED  POPPIES William  Sharp  267 

THE  VILLA  OF  HADRIAN Gamaliel  Bradford,  Jr.  268 


xiv  CONTENTS 

LICENZA  PAGE 

THE  SABINE  FARM Horace  269 

"O  FONS  BANDUSLE" Horace  272 

OSTIA 

OSTIA  yirgil  273 

AT  TIBEB  MOUTH Rennell  Road  273 

MONTE  GASSING 

MONTE  CASSINU H.  W.  Longfellow  279 

CAPUA 

CAPUA » John  Nichol  283 

NAPLES 

ODE  TO  NAPLES Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  285 

STANZAS Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  289 

PALM  SUNDAY:  NAPLES Arthur  Symons  291 

A  NIGHT  IN  NAPLES Lewis  Morris  292 

NAPLES W.  H.  Gibson  294 

MT.  VESUVIUS 

VESUVIUS  Martial  296 

VESUVIUS Richard  Chenevix  Trench  296 

VESUVIUS C.  P.  Cranch  298 

CASTELLAMAEE 

AT  CASTELLAMAEE John  Addington  Symonds  303 

POMPEII 

POMPEII J.  E.  Reade  305 

A  GIBL  OF  POMPEII E.  S.  Martin  309 

POMPEII <0.  W.  Carryl  310 


CONTENTS  xv 

SORRENTO  PAGE 

SORRENTO Frederick  Locker  312 

SORRENTO T.  W.  Parsons  313 

WRITTEN  IN  TASSO'S  HOUSE Aubrey  de  Vere  315 

SORRENTO W.  W.  Story  315 

LOOKING  BACK John  Aldington  Symonds  317 

CAPRI 

CAPBI Alfred  Austin  320 

THE  AZURE  GROTTO Charles  D.  Bell  321 

AMALFI 

AT  AMALFI Lord  Houghton  323 

AMALFI H.  W.  Longfellow  324 

AT  AMALFI John  Addington  Symonds  328 

P^STUM 

P^ESTUM J.  E.  Reade  331 

P^ESTUM C.  P.  Cranch  333 

POSILIPO 

THE  VOYAGE  AROUND  POSILIPO.. Friederich  Rueckert  335 

VIRGIL'S  TOMB R.  C.  Rogers  337 

VIRGIL'S  TOMB W.  H.  Gibson  338 

POZZUOLI 

THE  AMPHITHEATRE  AT  POZZUOLI Henry  Taylor  339 

BAJA  (BALE) 

BALE James  Thomson  340 

RUINS  OF  CORNELIA'S  HOUSE Aubrey  de  Vere  341 

BALE Nicholas  Mitchell  342 

CUMA  (CTJKdS) 

CUM^ Virgil  343 

THE  SIBYL'S  CAVE  AT  CUMA Aubrey  de  Vere  344 


xvi  CONTENTS 

ISCHIA  PAGE 

INARIME H.  W.  Longfellow    345 

REGGIO  (RHEGIUM) 

ON  IBYCUS  343 

REGGIO . .  j,  E.  Reade    348 


THE  RIVER  BUSENTO 
THE  GBAVE  IN  THE  BUSENTO August  von  Platen    350 

•TARANTO  (TARENTUM) 
TARENTUM  Virgil    352 

BRINDISI  (BRUNDISIUM) 
BBUNDISIUM  Lucan    354 

ANCONA 
POPPIES  IN  THE  WHEAT Helen  F.  Jackson    356 

FOSSOMBRONE 
THE  BELLS  OF  FOSSOMBBONE Clinton  Scollard    357 

FANO 
THE  GUARQIAN  ANGEL Robert  Browning    360 

RIMINI 
RIMINI ' Dante    363 

RAVENNA 

DANTE Giovanni  Boccaccio  365 

RAVENNA John  Dryden  365 

RAVENNA Lord  Byron  366 

RAVENNA Leigh  Hunt  366 


CONTENTS  xvii 

FERRARA  PAGE 

THE  PRISON  OF  TASSO Lord  Byron  368 

TASSO'S  DUNGEON Richard  Chenevix  Trench  370 

To  DUKE  ALPHONSO,  ASKING  FOB  LIBEBTY Tasso  371 

ARQUA 

PETBABCH'S  TOMB Lord  Byron  372 

WBITTEN  IN  PETBARCH'S  HOUSE Lord  Houghton  373 

PADUA 

PADUA  Virgil  375 

PADUA Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  375 

VENICE 

VENICE Lord  Byron  378 

THE  CABNIVAL Lord  Byron  382 

DUCAL  PALACE Lord  Byron  383 

VENICE Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  385 

AT  VENICE A.  H.  Clough  388 

THE  PIAZZA  OF  ST.  MABK  AT  MIDNIGHT Aldrich  389 

SAINT  CHRISTOPHEB William  D.  Howells  391 

To  VENICE AleTcsandri  392 

THE  GONDOLA Goethe  393 

SUNRISE  IN  VENICE Joaquin  Miller  394 

A  TOCCATA  OF  GALUPPI'S Robert  Browning  396 

VENICE Alfred  de  Musset  399 

VENICE H.  W.  Longfellow  401 

VENETIAN  SUNBISE John  Addington  Symonds  402 

VENICE John  Addington  Symonds  402 

FBOM  "LOVE  IN  ITALY" J.  H.  Ingham  403 

IN  THE  SMALL  CANALS.  ..Jo Tin  Addington  Symonds  404 

A  MASQUE  OF  VENICE Emma  Lazarus  405 

THE  DECAY  OF  VENICE S.  W.  Mitchell  408 

VENETIAN  NIGHT Arthur  Symons  409 

DAWN  AT  VENICE Martha  G.  Dickinson  410 

VENICE Irving  Browne  411 

ON  THE  ZATTEBE Arthur  Symons  415 


xviii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

VENETA  MABINA Arthur  Symons  417 

AT  THE  DOGANA Arthur  Symons  418 

ON  THE  LIDO A.  H.  Clough  418 

LIDO Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  419 

THE  JEWS'  CEMETERY John  Addington  Symonds  420 

TOBCELLO 

TORCELLO Helen  Hunt  421 

ASOLO 

BROWNING  AT  ASOLO R.  U.  Johnson  422 

FAREWELL  TO  ITALY 

LINES  ON  LEAVING  ITALY A.  G.  Oehlenschlager  424 

FAREWELL  TO  ITALY W.  8.  Landor  425 

FAREWELL  TO  ITALY R.  U.  Johnson  426 


THROUGH  ITALY 


WITH 


THE  POETS 


ITALY 


THE  PRAISE  OF  ITALY 

YET  nor  the  Median  groves,  nor  rivers  rolled, 
Ganges  and  Herraus,  o'er  their  beds  of  gold, 
Nor  Ind,  nor  Bactra,  nor  the  blissful  land 
Where  incense  spreads  o'er  rich  Panchaia's  sand, 
Nor  all  that  fancy  paints  in  fabled  lays, 
O  native  Italy!  transcend  thy  praise. 
Though  here  no  bulls  beneath  the  enchanted  yoke 
With  fiery  nostrils  o'er  the  furrow  smoke, 
No  hydra  teeth  embattled  harvest  yield, 
Spear  and  bright  helmet  bristling  o'er  the  field ; 
Yet  golden  corn  each  laughing  valley  fills, 
The  vintage  reddens  on  a  thousand  hills, 
Luxuriant  olives  spread  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  flocks  unnumbered  range  the  pastures  o'er. 
Hence  the  proud  war-horse  rushes  on  the  foe, 
Clitumnus !  hence  thy  herds,  more  white  than  snow, 
And  stately  bull,  that,  of  gigantic  size, 
Supreme  of  victims  on  the  altar  lies, 
Bathed  in  thy  sacred  stream  oft  led  the  train, 
When  Rome  in  pomp  of  triumph  decked  the  fane, 

1 


8  TKAGUGK  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Here  Spring  perpetual  leads  the  laughing  hours, 
And  Winter  wears  a  wreath  of  Summer  flowers ; 
The  o'erloaded  branch  twice  fills  with  fruits  the 

year, 

And  twice  the  teeming  flocks  their  offspring  rear. 
Yet  here  no  lion  breeds,  no  tiger  strays, 
No  tempting  aconite  the  touch  betrays, 
No  monstrous  snake  the  uncoiling  volume  trails, 
Or  gathers,  orb  on  orb,  his  iron  scales. 
But  many  a  peopled  city  towers  around, 
And  many  a  rocky  cliff  with  castle  crowned, 
And  many  an  antique  wall,  whose  hoary  brow 
O'ershades  the  flood,  that  guards  its  base  below. 
Say,  shall  I  add,  enclosed  on  every  side 
What  seas  defend  thee,  and  what  lakes  divide? 
Thine,  mighty  Larius?  or,  with  surging  waves, 
Where,  fierce  as  ocean,  vexed  Benacus  raves  ? 
Havens  and  ports,  the  Lucrine's  added  mole, 
Seas,  that  enraged  along  their  bulwark  roll, 
Where  Julian  waves  reject  the  indignant  tide, 
And  Tuscan  billows  down  Avernus  glide? 
Here  brass  and  silver  ores  rich  veins  expose, 
And  pregnant  mines  exhaustless  gold  enclose. 
Blest  in  thy  race,  in  battle  unsubdued 
The  Marsian  youth,  and  Sabine's  hardy  brood, 
By  generous  toil  the  bold  Ligurian's  steeled, 
And  spear-armed  Volsci  that  disdain  to  yield ; 
Camilli,  Marii,  Decii,  swell  thy  line, 
And,  thunderbolts  of  war,  each  Scipio,  thine! 


ITALY  3 

Thou  Cassar!  chief,  whose  sword  the  East  o'er- 

powers, 

And  the  tamed  Indian  drives  from  Roman  towers. 
All  hail,  Saturnian  earth !  hail,  loved  of  fame, 
Land  rich  in  fruits,  and  men  of  mighty  name ! 
For  thee  I  dare  the  sacred  founts  explore, 
For  thee  the  rules  of  ancient  art  restore, 
Themes,  once  to  glory  raised,  again  rehearse, 
And  pour  through  Roman   towns   the  Ascraean 

verse.  VIRGIL. 

Tr.  William  Sotheby.    , 


TO  ITALY 

O  ITALY,  my  country !  I  behold 

Thy  columns,  and  thine  arches,  and  thy  walls, 

And  the  proud  statues  of  our  ancestors ; 

The  laurel  and  the  mail  with  which  our  sires 

Were  clad,  these  I  behold  not,  nor  their  fame. 

Why  thus  unarmed,  with  naked  breast  and  brow? 

What    means    that    livid    paleness,    those    deep 

wounds  ? 

To  heaven  and  earth  I  raise  my  voice,  and  ask 
What  hand  hath  brought  thee  to  this  low  estate, 
Who,  worse  than  all,  hath  loaded  thee  with  chains, 
So  that,  unveiled  and  with  dishevelled  hair, 
Thou  sittest  on  the  ground  disconsolate, 


* 
4  THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Hiding  thy  weeping  face  between  thy  knees  ? 
Ay,  weep,  Italia !  thou  hast  cause  to  weep ! 
Degraded  and  forlorn.    Yes,  were  thine  eyes 
Two  living  fountains,  never  could  thy  tears 
Equal  thy  desolation  and  thy  shame ! 
Fallen ! — ruined ! — lost !  who  writes  or  speaks  of 

thee, 

But,  calling  unto  mind  thine  ancient  fame, 
Exclaims,  "Once  she  was  mighty!     Is  this  she?" 
Where  is  thy  vaunted  strength,  thy  high  resolve? 
Who  from  thy  belt  hath  torn  the  warrior  sword? 
How  hast  thou  fallen  from  thy  pride  of  place 
To  this  abyss  of  misery?  Are  there  none 
To  combat  for  thee,  to  defend  thy  cause? 
To  arms!    Alone  I'll  fight  and  fall  for  thee! 
Content  if  my  best  blood  strike  forth  one  spark 
To  fire  the  bosoms  of  my  countrymen. 
Where  are  thy  sons?     I  hear  the  clang  of  arms, 
The  din  of  voices,  and  the  bugle-note ; 
Sure  they  are  fighting  for  a  noble  cause ! 
Yes,  one  faint  hope  remains — I  see — I  see 
The  fluttering  of  banners  in  the  breeze ; 
I  hear  the  tramp  of  horses  and  of  men, 
The  roar  of  cannon,  and,  like  glittering  lamps 
Amid  the  darkening  gloom,  the  flash  of  swords. 
Is  there  no  comfort?    And  who  combat  there 
In  that  Italian  camp?    Alas,  ye  gods, 
Italian  brands  fight  for  a  foreign  lord ! 
O,  miserable  those  whose  blood  is  shed 


ITALY 

Not  for  their  native  land,  for  wife  or  child, 
But  for  a  stranger  lord — who  cannot  say 
With  dying  breath,  "My  country !  I  restore 
The  life  thou  givest,  and  gladly  die — for  thee !" 

GIACOMO  LEOPABDI. 
Tr.  Ancn. 


MIGNON 

DOST  know  the  land  of  lemon-flowers, 
Of  dusky  gold-flecked  orange  bowers  ? 
The  breath  of  the  azure  sky  scarce  heaves 
The  myrtle  and  high  laurel  leaves. 

Dost  know  it  well? 

Oh  there,  'tis  there 

Together,  dear  one,  we  must  fare. 

Dost  know  the  house?  the  gleaming  walls 

The  pillared  roof,  the  brilliant  halls? 

Grave  statues  stand  and  look  at  me : 

"What   have   they   done,   poor    child,   to   thee?" 

Dost  know  it  well? 

Oh  there,  'tis  there 

My  dear  protector,  we  must  fare. 

Dost  know  the  peak  and  its  path  in  the  gray? 
The  mule  in  the  mist  is  seeking  his  way, 
The  dragon-folk  dwell  in  the  ancient  lair, 


6  THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

The  stream  crashes  over  the  boulder  there. 
Dost  know  it  well? 

Oh  there,  'tis  there 
Our  path  leads  ;  Father,  let  us  fare ! 

JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE. 

Tr.  Robert  Haven  Schauffler. 


ITALY 

(From  "A  Litany  of  Nations.99) 

I  AM  she  that  was  the  light  of  thee  enkindled 

When  Greece  grew  dim ; 

She  whose  life  grew  up  with  man's  free  life,  and 
dwindled 

With  wane  of  him. 
She  that  once  by  sword  and  once  by  word  imperial 

Struck  bright  thy  gloom; 
And  a  third  time,  casting  off  these  years  funereal, 

Shall  burst  thy  tomb. 

By  that   bond   'twixt   thee   and   me  whereat   af- 
frighted 

Thy  tyrants  fear  us; 
By  that  hope  and  this  remembrance  reunited; 

(Cho.)  O  mother,  hear  us. 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE, 


ITALY 


"ITALIA,  10  TI  SALUTO!" 

To  come  back  from  the  sweet  South,  to  the  North 
To  where  I  was  born,  bred,  look  to  die ; 

Come  back  to  do  my  day's  work  in  its  day, 

Play  out  my  play — 
Amen,  amen,  say  I. 

To  see  no  more  the  country  half  my  own, 

Nor  hear  the  half  familiar  speech, 
Amen  I  say ;  I  turn  to  that  bleak  North 
Whence  I  came  forth — 

The  South  lies  out  of  reach. 

But  when  our  swallows  fly  back  to  the  South, 

To  the  sweet  South,  to  the  sweet  South, 
The  tears  may  come  again  into  my  eyes 

On  the  old  wise, 
And  the  sweet  name  to  my  mouth. 

CHRISTINA  G.  ROSSETTI. 


THE  DAISY 

O  LOVE,  what  hours  were  thine  and  mine 
In  lands  of  palm  and  southern  pine, — 
In  lands  of  palm,  of  orange-blossom, 
Of  olive,  aloe,  and  maize  and  vine. 


8  THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

What  Roman  strength  Turbia  showed 
In  ruin,  by  the  mountain  road ; 

How  like  a  gem,  beneath,  the  city 
Of  little  Monaco,  basking,  glowed. 

How  richly  down  the  rocky  dell 
The  torrent  vineyard  streaming  fell 

To  meet  the  sun  and  sunny  waters, 
That  only  heaved  with  a  summer  swell. 

What  slender  campanili  grew 

By  bays,  the  peacock's  neck  in  hue ; 

Where,  here  and  there,  on  sandy  beaches 
A  milky-belled  amaryllis  blew. 

How  young  Columbus  seemed  to  rove, 
Yet  present  in  his  natal  grove, 

Now  watching  high  on  mountain  cornice, 
And  steering,  now,  from  a  purple  cove, 

Now  pacing  mute  by  ocean's  rim 
Till,  in  a  narrow  street  and  dim, 

I  stayed  the  wheels  at  Cogoletto, 
And  drank,  and  loyally  drank  to  him,     . 

Nor  knew  we  well  what  pleased  us  most, 
Not  the  dipt  palm  of  which  they  boast ; 

But  distant  colour,  happy  hamlet, 
A  mouldered  citadel  on  the  coast, 


ITALY  9 

Or  tower,  or  high  hill-convent,  seen 
A  light  amid  its  olives  green; 

Or  olive-hoary  cape  in  ocean ; 
Or  rosy  blossom  in  hot  ravine, 

Where  oleanders  flushed  the  bed 
Of  silent  torrents,  gravel-spread; 

And,  crossing,  oft  we  saw  the  glisten    . 
Of  ice,  far  up  on  a  mountain  head. 

We  loved  that  hall,  though  white  and  cold, 
Those  niched  shapes  of  noble  mould, 
A  princely  people's  awful  princes, 
The  grave,  severe  Genovese  of  old. 

At  Florence,  too,  what  golden  hours 
In  those  long  galleries  were  ours ; 

What  drives  about  the  fresh  Cascine, 
Or  walks  in  Boboli's  ducal  bowers. 

In  bright  vignettes,  and  each  complete, 
Of  tower  or  duomo,  sunny-sweet, 

Or  palace,  how  the  city  glittered, 
Through  cypress  avenues,  at  our  feet. 

But  when  we  crost  the  Lombard  plain 
Remember  what  a  plague  of  rain ; 

Of  rain  at  Reggio,  rain  at  Parma ; 
At  Lodi,  rain,  Piacenza,  rain. 


10         THBOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

And  stern  and  sad  (so  rare  the  smiles 
Of  sunlight)  looked  the  Lombard  piles ; 

Porch-pillars  on  the  lion  resting, 
And  sombre,  old,  colonnaded  aisles. 

0  Milan,  O  the  chanting  quires, 
The  giant  windows'  blazoned  fires, 

The  height,  the  space,  the  gloom,  the  glory! 
A  mount  of  marble,  a  hundred  spires ! 

1  climbed  the  roofs  at  break  of  day ; 
Sun-smitten  Alps  before  me  lay. 

I  stood  among  the  silent  statues, 
And  statued  pinnacles,  mute  as  they. 

How  faintly  flushed,  how  phantom-fair, 
Was  Monte  Rosa  hanging  there 

A  thousand  shadowy-pencilled  valleys 
And  snowy  dells  in  a  golden  air. 

Remember  how  we  came  at  last 
TO  Como ;  shower  and  storm  and  blast 
Had  blown  the  lake  beyond  his  limit, 
And  all  was  flooded;  and  how  we  past 

From  Como,  when  the  light  was  gray, 
And  in  my  head,  for  half  the  day, 

The  rich  Virgilian  rustic  measure 
Of  Lari  Maxume,  all  the  way 


ITALY  11 

Like  ballad-burden  music  kept, 
As  on  the  L&riano  crept 

To  that  fair  port  below  the  castle 
Of  Queen  Theodolind,  where  we  slept ; 

Or  hardly  slept,  but  watched  awake 
A  cypress  in  the  moonlight  shake, 

The  moonlight  touching  o'er  a  terrace 
One  tall  Agave  above  the  lake. 

What  more?  we  took  our  last  adieu, 
And  up  the  snowy  Spliigen  drew, 

But  ere  we  reached  the  highest  summit 
I  plucked  a  daisy,  I  gave  it  you. 

It  told  of  England  then  to  me, 
And  now  it  tells  of  Italy. 

O  love,  we  two  shall  go  no  longer 
To  lands  of  summer  across  the  sea ; 

So  dear  a  life  your  arms  enfold 
Whose  crying  is  a  cry  for  gold: 

Yet  here  to-night  in  this  dark  city, 
When  ill  and  weary,  alone  and  cold, 

I  found,  tho'  crush'd  to  hard  and  dry, 
This  nursling  of  another  sky 

Still  in  the  little  book  you  lent  me, 
And  where  you  tenderly  laid  it  by : 


IS         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

And  I  forgot  the  clouded  Forth, 

The  gloom  that  saddens  heaven  and  earth, 

The  bitter  east,  the  misty  summer 
And  grey  metropolis  of  the  North. 

Perchance  to  lull  the  throbs  of  pain, 
Perchance  to  charm  a  vacant  brain, 

Perchance  to  dream  you  still  beside  me, 
My  fancy  fled  to  the  South  again. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


ITALY 

OUR  Italy's 
The  darling  of  the  earth, — the  treasury,  piled 

With  reveries  of  gentle  ladies,  flung 
Aside,  like  ravelled  silk,  from  life's  worn  stuff, — 

With   coins   of   scholars'   fancy,  which,   being 

rung 
On  workday  counter,  still  sound  silver-proof, — 

In  short,  with  all  the  dreams  of  dreamers  young, 
Before  their  heads  have  time  for  slipping  off 

Hope's  pillow  to  the  ground.     How  oft,  indeed, 
We  all  have  sent  our  souls  out  from  the  north, 

On  bare  white  feet  which  would  not  print  nor 

bleed, 
To  climb  the  Alpine  passes  and  look  forth, 

Where  the  low  murmuring  Lombard  rivers  lead 


ITALY  13 

Their  bee-like  way  to  gardens  almost  worth 

The  sight  which  thou  and  I  see  afterward 
From  Tuscan  Bellosguardo,  wide  awake, 

When  standing  on  the  actual,  blessed  sward 
Where  Galileo  stood  at  nights  to  take 

The  vision  of  the  stars,  we  find  it  hard, 
Gazing  upon  the  earth  and  heaven,  to  make 

A  choice  of  beauty. 

ELIZABETH  BAEHETT  BROWNING. 


TO  ITALY 

Stanzas  from  the  "Italian  Rhapsody." 

ABSENCE  from  thee  is  such  as  men  endure 

Between  the  glad  betrothal  and  the  bride; 
Or  like  the  years  that  Youth,  intense  and  sure, 
From  his  ambition  to  his  goal  must  bide. 
And  if  no  more  I  may 
Mount  to  Fiesole     .     .     . 

Oh,  then  were  Memory  meant  for  those  to  whom 
is  Hope  denied. 

Show  me  a  lover  who  hath  drunk  by  night 
Thy  beauty-potion,  as  the  grape  the  dew: 
'T  were  little  wonder  he  were  poet  too, 

With  wine  of  song  in  unexpected  might, 


14         THKOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

While  moonlit  cloister  calls 
With  plashy  fountain-falls, 

Or  darkened  Arno  moves  to  music  with  its  mir- 
rored light. 


Who  can  withstand  thee?    What  distress  or  care 
But  yields  to  Naples,  or  that  long  day-dream 
We  know  as  Venice,  where  alone  more  fair 

Noon  is  than  night ;  where  every  lapping  stream 
Woos  with  a  soft  caress 
Our  new-world  weariness, 

And  every  ripple  smiles  with  joy  at  sight  of  scene 
so  rare. 

The    mystery    of    thy    charm — ah,    who    hath 

guessed? 

'T  were  ne'er  divined  by  day  or  shown  in  sleep ; 
Yet  sometimes  Music,  floating  from  her  steep, 
Holds  to  our  lips  a  chalice  brimmed  and  blest : 
Then  know  we  that  thou  art 
Of  the  Ideal  part— 

Of  Man's  one  thirst  that  is  not  quenched,  drink 
he  howe'er  so  deep. 

Thou  human-hearted  land,  whose  revels  hold 
Man  in  communion  with  the  antique  days, 
And  summon  him  from  prosy  greed  to  ways 

Where  Youth  is  beckoning  to  the  Age  of  Gold ; 


ITALY  15 

How  thou  dost  hold  him  near 
And  whisper  in  his  ear 

Of  the  lost  Paradise  that  lies  beyond  the  alluring 
haze! 

In  tears  I  tossed  my  coin  from  Trevi's  edge, — 
A  coin  unsordid  as  a  bond  of  love, — 
And,  with  the  instinct  of  the  homing  dove, 
I  gave  to  Rome  my  rendezvous  and  pledge. 
And  when  imperious  Death 
Has  quenched  my  flame  of  breath, 
Oh,  let  me  join  the  faithful  shades  that  throng 
that  fount  above. 

ROBERT  UNDERWOOD  JOHNSON. 


ITALIA 

ITALIA!  thou  art  fallen,  though  with  sheen 
Of  battle-spears  thy  clamorous  armies  stride 
From  the  north  Alps  to  the  Sicilian  tide ! 

Ay !  fallen,  though  the  nations  hail  thee  Queen 

Because  rich  gold  in  every  town  is  seen, 
And  on  thy  sapphire  lake  in  tossing  pride 
Of  wind-filled  vans  thy  myriad  galleys  ride 

Beneath  one  flag  of  red  and  white  and  green. 

O  Fair  and  Strong!  O  Strong  and  Fair  in 
vain! 


16         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Look  southward  where  Rome's  desecrated  town 
Lies  mourning  for  her  God-anointed  King ! 
Look  heavenward!  shall  God  allow  this  thing? 
Nay;   but    some  flame-girt   Raphael    shall    come 

down, 

And  smite  the  Spoiler  with  the  sword  of  pain. 

OSCAE  WILDE. 


A  SONG  OF  ITALY 

ITALIA  !  by  the  passion  of  the  pain 

That  bent  and  rent  thy  chain; 

Italia ;  by  the  breaking  of  the  bands, 

The  shaking  of  the  lands ; 

Beloved,  O  men's  mother,  O  men's  queen, 

Arise,  appear,  be  seen! 

Arise,  array  thyself  in  manifold 

Queen's  raiment  of  wrought  gold ; 

With  girdles  of  green  freedom,  and  with  red 

Roses,  and  white  snow  shed 

Above  the  flush  and  f  rondage  of  the  hills 

That  all  thy  deep  dawn  fills 

That  all  thy  clear  night  veils   and  warms  with 

wings 

Spread  till  the  morning  sings ; 
The  rose  of  resurrection,  and  the  bright 
Breast  lavish  of  the  light, 


ITALY  17 

The  lady  lily  like  the  snowy  sky 

Ere  the  stars  wholly  die; 

As  red  as  blood,  and  whiter  than  a  wave, 

Flowers  grown  as  from  thy  grave, 

From  the  green  fruitful  grass  in  Maytime  hot, 

Thy  grave,  where  thou  art  not. 

Gather  the  grass  and  weave,  in  sacred  sign 

Of  the  ancient  earth  divine, 

The  holy  heart  of  things,  the  seed  of  birth, 

The  mystical  warm  earth. 

O  thou  her  flower  of  flowers,  with  treble  braid 

Be  thy  sweet  head  arrayed, 

In  witness  of  her  mighty  motherhood 

Who  bore  thee  and  found  thee  good, 

Her  fairest-born  of  children,  on  whose  head 

Her  green  and  white  and  red 

Are  hope  and  light  and  life,  inviolate 

Of  any  latter  fate. 

Fly,  O  our  flag,  through  deep  Italian  air, 

Above  the  flags  that  were, 

The  dusty  shreds  of  shameful  battle-flags 

Trampled  and  rent  in  rags, 

As  withering  woods  in  autumn's  bitterest  breath 

Yellow,  and  black  as  death ; 

Black  as  crushed  worms  that  sicken  in  the  sense, 

And  yellow  as  pestilence. 

Fly,  green  as  summer  and  red  as  dawn  and  white 

As  the  live  heart  of  light, 


18         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

The   blind   bright   womb    of   color   unborn,   that 

brings 

Forth  all  fair  forms  of  things, 
As  freedom  all  fair  forms  of  nations  dyed 
In  divers-coloured  pride. 
Fly  fleet  as  wind  on  every  wind  that  blows 
Between  her  seas  and  snows, 

From  Alpine  white,  from  Tuscan  green,  and  where 
Vesuvius  reddens  air. 

Fly !  and  let  all  men  see  it,  and  all  kings  wail, 
And  priests  wax  faint  and  pale, 
And  the  cold  hordes  that  moan  in  misty  places 
And  the  funereal  races 

And  the  sick  serfs  of  lands  that  wait  and  wane 
See  thee  and  hate  thee  in  vain. 
In  the  clear  laughter  of  all  winds  and  waves, 
In  the  blown  grass  of  graves, 
In  the  long  sound  of  fluctuant  boughs  of  trees, 
In  the  broad  breath  of  seas, 
Bid  the  sound  of  thy  flying  folds  be  heard; 
And  as  a  spoken  word 
Full  of  that  fair  god  and  that  merciless 
Who  rends  the  Pythoness, 
So  be  the  sound  and  so  the  fire  that  saith 
She  feels  her  ancient  breath 
And  the  old  blood  move  in  her  immortal  veins. 
ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 


ITALY  19 


"DE  GUSTIBUS— " 

I 

YOUR  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of  trees, 

(If  our  loves  remain) 

In  an  English  lane, 

By  a  cornfield-side  a-flutter  with  poppies. 
Hark,  those  two  in  the  hazel  coppice — 
A  boy  and  a  girl,  if  the  good  fates  please, 

Making  love,  say, — 

The  happier  they! 

Draw  yourself  up  from  the  light  of  the  moon, 
And  let  them  pass,  as  they  will  too  soon, 

With  the  beanflower's  boon, 

And  the  blackbird's  tune, 

And  May,  and  June ! 

II 

What  I  love  best  in  all  the  world 

Is  a  castle,  precipice-encurl'd, 

In  a  gash  of  the  wind-griev'd  Apennine. 

Or  look  for  me,  old  fellow  of  mine, 

(If  I  get  my  head  from  out  the  mouth 

O'  the  grave,  and  loose  my  spirit's  bands, 

And  come  again  to  the  land  of  lands) — 

In  a  sea-side  house  to  the  farther  South, 

Where  the  bak'd  cicala  dies  of  drouth, 

And   one    sharp    tree — 't   is    a   cypress — stands, 


20         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

By  the  many  hundred  years  red-rusted, 
Rough  iron-spik'd,  ripe  fruit  o'ercrusted, 
My  sentinel  to  guard  the  sands 
To  the  water's  edge.     For,  what  expands 
Before  the  house,  but  the  great  opaque 
Blue  breadth  of  sea  without  a  break? 
While,  in  the  house,  for  ever  crumbles 
Some  fragment  of  the  frescoed  walls, 
From  blisters  where  a  scorpion  sprawls. 
A  girl  bare-footed  brings,  and  tumbles 
Down  on  the  pavement,  green-flesh  melons, 
And  says  there's  news  to-day — the  king 
Was  shot  at,  touch'd  in  the  liver-wing, 
Goes  with  his  Bourbon  arm  in  a  sling: 
— She  hopes  they  have  not  caught  the  felons. 
Italy,  my  Italy! 
Queen  Mary's  saying  serves  for  me — 

(When  fortune's  malice 

Lost  her  Calais) 

Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Grav'd  inside  of  it,  "Italy." 
Such  lovers  old  are  I  and  she: 
So  it  always  was,  so  shall  ever  be. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


VERONA 


VERONA 

CKOSS  Adria's  gulf,  and  land  where  softly  glide 
A  stream's  crisp  waves,  to  join  blue  Ocean's  tide; 
Still  westward  hold  thy  way,  till  Alps  look  down 
On  old  Verona's  walled  and  classic  town. 
Fair  is  the  prospect ;  palace,  tower,  and  spire, 
And  blossomed  grove,  the  eye  might  well  admire ; 
Heaven-piercing  mountains  capped  with  endless 

snow, 

Where  winter  reigns,  and  frowns  on  earth  below ; 
Old  castles  crowning  many  a  craggy  steep, 
From  which  in  silver  sounding  torrents  leap: 
Southward  the  plain  where  Summer  builds  her 

bowers, 

And  floats  on  downy  gales  the  soul  of  flowers ; 
Where  orange-blossoms  glad  the  honeyed  bee, 
And  vines  in  festoons  wave  from  tree  to  tree ; 
While,  like  a  streak  of  sky  from  heaven  let  fall, 
The  deep  blue  river,  glittering,  winds  through  all ; 
The  woods  that  whisper  to  the  zephyr's  kiss, 
Where  nymphs  might  taste  again  Arcadian  bliss ; 
The  sun-bright  hills  that  bound  the  distant  view, 
And  melt  like  mists  in  skies  of  tenderest  blue — 

21 


22         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

All  charm  the  ravished  sense,  and  dull  is  he 
Who,  cold,  unmoved,  such  glorious  scene  can  see. 

Here  did  the  famed  Catullus  rove  and  dream, 
And  godlike  Pliny  drink  of  Wisdom's  stream; 
Wronged  by  his  friends,  and  exiled  by  his  foes, 
Amid  these  vales  did  Dante  breathe  his  woes, 
Raise  demons  up,  call  seraphs  from  the  sky, 
And  frame  the  dazzling  verse  that  ne'er  shall  die. 
Here,  too,  hath  Fiction  weaved  her  loveliest  spell, 
Visions  of  beauty  float  o'er  crag  and  dell ; 
But  chief  we  seem  to  hear  at  evening  hour 
The  sigh  of  Juliet  in  her  starlit  bower, 
Follow  her  form  slow  gliding  through  the  gloom, 
And  drop  a  tear  above  her  mouldered  tomb. 

Sweet  are  these  thoughts,  and  in  such  favoured 

scene 

Methinks  life's  stormiest  skies  might  grow  serene, 
Care  smooth  her  brow,  the  troubled  heart  find  rest, 
And,  spite  of  crime  and  passion,  man  be  blest. 
But  to  our  theme:  The  pilgrim  comes  to  trace 
Verona's  ruins,  not  bright  Nature's  face ; 
Be  still,  chase  lightsome  fancies,  ere  thou  dare 
Approach  yon  pile,  so  grand  yet  softly  fair ; 
The  mighty  circle,  breathing  beauty,  seems 
The  work  of  genii  in  immortal  dreams. 
So  firm  the  mass,  it  looks  as  built  to  vie 
With  Alp's  eternal  ramparts  towering  nigh. 


VERONA  23 

Its  graceful  strength  each  lofty  portal  keeps, 
Unbroken  round  the  first  great  cincture  sweeps ; 
The  marble  benches,  tier  on  tier,  ascend, 
The  winding  galleries  seem  to  know  no  end. 
Glistening  and  pure,  the  summer  sunbeams  fall, 
Softening  each  sculptured  arch  and  rugged  wall. 
We  tread  the  arena ;  blood  no  longer  flows, 
But  in  the  sand  the  pale-eyed  violet  blows, 
While  ivy,  covering  many  a  bench,  is  seen, 
Staining  its  white  with  lines  of  liveliest  green, — 
Age-honouring  plant !  that  weds  not  buildings  gay, 
With  love,  still  faithful,  clinging  to  decay. 

NICHOLAS  MITCHELL. 


TO  VERONA 

VERONA  !  thy  tall  gardens  stand  erect 

Beckoning  me  upward.     Let  me  rest  awhile 

Where  the  birds  whistle  hidden  in  the  boughs, 

Or  fly  away  when  idlers  take  their  place, 

Mated  as  well,  concealed  as  willingly; 

Idlers  whose  nest  must  not  swing  there,  but  rise 

Beneath  a  gleamy  canopy  of  gold, 

Amid  the  flight  of  Cupids,  and  the  smiles 

Of  Venus  ever  radiant  o'er  their  couch. 

Here  would  I  stay,  here  wander,  slumber  here, 

Nor  pass  into  that  theatre  below 

Crowded  with  their  faint  memories,  shades  of  joy. 


24»         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

But  ancient  song  arouses  me ;  I  hear 
Coelius  and  Anfilena ;  I  behold 
Lesbia,  and  Lesbia's  linnet  at  her  lip 
Pecking  the  fruit  that  ripens  and  swells  out 
For  him  whose  song  the  Graces  loved  the  most, 
Whatever  land,  east,  west,  they  visited. 
Even  he  must  not  detain  me :  one  there  is 
Greater  than  he,  of  broader  wing,  or  swoop 
Sublimer.     Open  now  that  humid  arch 
Where  Juliet  sleeps  the  quiet  sleep  of  death, 
And  Romeo  sinks  aside  her. 

Fare  ye  well, 

Lovers !  Ye  have  not  loved  in  vain :  the  hearts 
Of  millions  throb  around  ye.    This  lone  tomb 
One  greater  than  yon  walls  have  ever  seen, 
Greater  than  Mantua's  prophet  eye  foresaw 
In  her  own  child  or  Rome's  hath  hallowed ; 
And  the  last  sod  or  stone  a  pilgrim  knee 
Shall  press  (Love  swears  it,  and  swears  true)  is 
here. 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 


AT  VERONA 

HOAV  STEEP  the  stairs  within  King's  houses  are 
For  exile-wearied  feet  as  mine  to  tread, 
And  O  how  salt  and  bitter  is  the  bread 

Which  falls  from  this  Hound's  table, — better  far 


VERONA  25 

That  I  had  died  in  the  red  ways  of  war, 

Or  that  the  gate  of  Florence  bare  my  head, 
Than  to  live  thus,  by  all  things  comraded 

Which  seek  the  essence  of  my  soul  to  mar. 

"Curse  God  and  die:  what  better  hope  than  this? 
He  hath  forgotten  thee  in  all  the  bliss 
Of  his  gold  city,  and  eternal  day" — 

Nay  peace :  behind  my  prison's  blinded  bars 
I  do  possess  what  none  can  take  away, 

My  love,  and  all  the  glory  of  the  stars. 

OSCAR  WILDE. 


BEFORE  THE  OLD  CASTLE  OF  VERONA 

GREEN  Adige,  'twas  thus  in  rapid  course 
And  powerful,  that  thou  didst  murmur  'neath 
The  Roman  bridges  sparkling  from  thy  stream 
Thine  ever-running  song  unto  the  sun, 
When  Odoacer,  giving  way  before 
The  onrush  of  Theodoric,  fell  back, 
And  midst  the  bloody  wrack  about  them  passed 
Into  this  fair  Verona  blonde  and  straight 
Barbarian  women  in  their  chariots,  singing 
Songs  unto  Odin;  while  the  Italian  folk 
Gathered  about  their  Bishop  and  put  forth 
To  meet  the  Goths  the  supplicating  Cross. 


26         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Thus  from  the  mountains  rigid  with  their  snows, 
In  all  the  placid  winter's  silver  gladness 
To-day  thou  still,  O  tireless  fugitive, 
Dost  murmuring  pass  upon  thy  way,  beneath 
The  Scaligers'  old  battlemented  bridge, 
Betwixt   time-blackened   piles    and   squalid   trees, 
To  far-off  hills  serene,  and  to  the  towers 
Whence  weep  the  mourning  banners  for  the  day, 
Returning  now,  which  saw  the  death  of  him 
Whom  a  free  Italy  first  chose  her  king. 
Still,  Adige,  thou  singest  as  of  yore 
Thine  ever-running  song  unto  the  sun. 

I,  too,  fair  river,  sing,  and  this  my  song 
Would  put  the  centuries  into  little  verse ; 
And  palpitating  to  each  thought,  my  heart 
Follows  the  stanza's  upward-quivering  flight. 
But  with  the  years,  my  verse  will  dull  and  fade; 
Thou,  Adige,  the  eternal  poet  art, 
Who  still — when  of  these  hills  the  turret  crown 
Is  shattered  into  fragments,  and  the  snake 
Sits  hissing  in  the  sunlight  where  now  stands 
The  great  basilica,  St.  Zeno's  fane — 
Still  in  the  desert  solitudes  wilt  voice 
The  sleepless  tedium  of  the  infinite. 

GIOSUE  CARDUCCI. 

Tr.  M.  W.  Arms. 


MANTUA 


MANTUA 

ABOVE  in  beauteous  Italy  lies  a  lake 

At  the  Alp's  foot  that  shuts  in  Germany 
Over  Tyrol,  and  has  the  name  Benaco. 

By  a  thousand   springs,   I  think,   and  more,   is 

bathed, 

'Twixt  Garda  and  Val  Camonica,  Pennine, 
With  water  that  grows  stagnant  in  that  lake. 

Midway  a  place  is  where  the  Trentine  Pastor, 
And  he  of  Brescia,  and  the  Veronese 
Might  give  his  blessing,  if  he  passed  that  way. 

Sitteth  Peschiera,  fortress  fair  and  strong, 
To  front  the  Brescians  and  the  Bergamasks, 
Where  round  about  the  bank  descendeth  lowest. 

There  of  necessity  must  fall  whatever 
In  bosom  of  Benaco  cannot  stay, 
And  grows  a  river  down  through  verdant  pas- 
tures. 

Soon  as  the  water  doth  begin  to  run, 

No  more  Benaco  is  it  called,  but  Mincio, 
Far  as  Governo,  where  it  falls  in  Po. 

Not  far  it  runs  before  it  finds  a  plain 

In  which  it  spreads  itself,  and  makes  it  marshy, 
And  oft  't  is  wont  in  summer  to  be  sickly. 
27 


28         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Passing  that  way  the  virgin  pitiless 
Land  in  the  middle  of  the  fen  descried, 
Untilled  and  naked  of  inhabitants ; 

There  to  escape  all  human  intercourse 

She  with  her  servants  stayed,  her  arts  to  prac- 
tice 
And  lived,  and  left  her  empty  body  there. 

The  men,  thereafter,  who  were  scattered  round, 
Collected  in  that  place,  which  was  made  strong 
By  the  lagoon  it  had  on  every  side; 

They  built  their  city  over  those  dead  bones, 
And,  after  her  who  first  the  place  selected, 
Mantua  named  it,  without  other  omen. 

Its  people  once  within  more  crowded  were, 
Ere  the  stupidity  of  Casalodi 
From  Pinamonte  had  received  deceit. 

Therefore  I  caution  thee,  if  e'er  thou  hearest 
Originate  my  city  otherwise, 
No  falsehood  may  the  verity  defraud. 

DANTE  ALIGHIERI. 
Tr.  H.  W.  Longfellow. 


MANTUA  29 


IN  THE  MEADOWS  AT  MANTUA 

BUT  to  have  lain  upon  the  grass 

One  perfect  day,  one  perfect  hour, 
Beholding  all  things  mortal  pass 
Into  the  quiet  of  green  grass; 

But  to  have  lain  and  loved  the  sun, 
Under  the  shadow  of  the  trees, 
To  have  been  found  in  unison, 
One,  only,  with  the  blessed  sun ! 

Ah !  in  these  flaring  London  nights, 

Where  midnight  withers  into  morn, 
How  quiet  a  rebuke  it  writes 
Across  the  sky  of  London  nights  1 

Upon  the  grass  at  Mantua 

These  London  nights  were  all  forgot. 
They  wake  for  me  again:  but  ah, 
The  meadow-grass  at  Mantua ! 

AETHUR  SYMONS. 


LAKE  GARDA 


SIRMIO 

SWEET  Sirmio !  thou,  the  very  eye 

Of  all  peninsulas  and  isles, 
That  in  our  lakes  of  silver  lie, 

Or   sleep,   enwreathed  by   Neptune's   smileSj 

How  gladly  back  to  thee  I  fly! 

Still  doubting,  asking, — can  it  be 
That  I  have  left  Bithynia's  sky, 

And  gaze  in  safety  upon  thee? 

O,  what  is  happier  than  to  find 

Our  hearts  at  ease,  our  perils  past ; 

When,  anxious  long,  the  lightened  mind 
Lays  down  its  load  of  care  at  last ; 

When,  tired  with  toil  o'er  land  and  deep, 

Again  we  tread  the  welcome  floor 
Of  our  own  home,  and  sink  to  sleep 

On  the  long-wished-for  bed  once  more. 

This,  this  it  is,  that  pays  alone 
The  ills  of  all  life's  former  track. 

Shine  out,  my  beautiful,  my  own 

Sweet  Sirmio !  greet  thy  master  back. 
80 


LAKE  GARDA  31 

And  thou,  fair  lake,  whose  water  quaffs 

The  light  of  heaven  like  Lydia's  sea, 
Rejoice,  rejoice, — let  all  that  laughs 
Abroad,  at  home,  laugh  out  for  me. 

CATULLUS. 
Tr.  Thomas  Moore. 


'PRATER  AVE  ATQUE  VALE' 

Row  us  out  from  Desenzano,  to  your  Sirmione 

row! 
So  they  row'd,  and  there  we  landed — CO  venusta 

Sirmio !' 
There  to  me  thro'  all  the  groves  of  olive  in  the 

summer  glow, 
There  beneath  the  Roman  ruin  where  the  purple 

flowers  grow, 
Came  that  6Ave  atque  Vale'  of  the  Poet's  hopeless 

woe, 
Tenderest  of  Roman  poets  nineteen-hundred  years 

ago, 
'Prater  Ave  atque  Vale' — as  we  wander'd  to  and 

fro 
Gazing  at  the  Lydian-laughter  of  the  Garda  Lake 

below 

Sweet  Catullus's  all-but-island,  olive-silvery   Sir- 
mio !  ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


BRESCIA 


THE  PATRIOT 

IT  was  roses,  roses,  all  the  way, 

With  myrtle  mixed  in  my  path  like  mad. 

The  house-roofs  seemed  to  heave  and  sway, 

The  church-spires  flamed,  such  flags  they  had, 

A  year  ago  on  this  very  day ! 

The  air  broke  into  a  mist  with  bells, 

The  old  walls  rocked  with  the  crowds  and  cries. 
Had  I  said,  "Good  folks,  mere  noise  repels, 

But  give  me  your  sun  from  yonder  skies !" 
They  had  answered,  "And  afterward,  what  else?" 

Alack,  it  was  I  who  leaped  at  the  sun, 
To  give  it  my  loving  friends  to  keep. 

Naught  man  could  do  have  I  left  undone, 
And  you  see  my  harvest,  what  I  reap 

This  very  day,  now  a  year  is  run. 

There's  nobody  on  the  house-tops  now, — 
Just  a  palsied  few  at  the  windows  set, — 

For  the  best  of  the  sight  is,  all  allow, 
At  the  Shambles'  Gate, — or,  better  yet, 

By  the  very  scaffold's  foot,  I  trow. 


BRESCIA  33 

I  go  in  the  rain,  and,  more  than  needs, 
A  rope  cuts  both  my  wrists  behind, 

And  I  think,  by  the  feel,  my  forehead  bleeds, 
For  they  fling,  whoever  has  a  mind, 

Stones  at  me  for  my  year's  misdeeds. 

Thus  I  entered  Brescia,  and  thus  I  go! 

In  such  triumphs   people  have   dropped  down 

dead. 

"Thou,  paid  by  the  world, — what  dost  thou  owe 
Me?"  God  might  have  question;  but  now  in- 
stead 
'Tis  God  shall  requite!     I  am  safer  so. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


MILAN 

MILAN 

MILAN  with  plenty  and  with  wealth  o'erflows, 

And  numerous  streets  and  cleanly  dwellings  shows : 

The  people,  blessed  with  Nature's  happy  force, 

Are  eloquent  and  cheerful  in  discourse ; 

A  circus  and  a  theatre  invites 

The  unruly  mob  to  races  and  to  fights. 

Moneta  consecrated  buildings  grace, 

And  the  whole  town  redoubled  walls  embrace ; 

Here  spacious  baths  and  palaces  are  seen, 

And  intermingled  temples  rise  between ; 

Here  circling  colonnades  the  ground  enclose, 

And  here  the  marble  statues  breathe  in  rows : 

Profusely  graced  the  happy  town  appears, 

Nor  Rome  itself  her  beauteous  neighbor  fears. 

AUSONIUS. 
Tr.  Joseph  Addison. 

THE  LAST  SUPPER 

By  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  in  the  refectory  of  the 
Convent  of  Maria  delta  Grazia,  Milan. 

THOUGH  searching  damps  and  many  an  envious 

flaw 

84 


MILAN  35 

Have  marred  this  work,  the  calm,  ethereal  grace, 

The  love,  deep-seated  in  the  Saviour's  face, 

The  mercy,  goodness,  have  not  failed  to  awe 

The  elements ;  as  they  do  melt  and  thaw 

The  heart  of  the  beholder,  and  erase 

(At  least  for  one  rapt  moment)  every  trace 

Of  disobedience  to  the  primal  law. 

The  annunciation  of  the  dreadful  truth 

Made  to  the  Twelve  survives :  lip,  forehead,  cheek, 

And  hand  reposing  on  the  board  in  ruth 

Of  what  it  utters,  while  the  unguilty  seek 

Unquestionable  meanings,  still  bespeak 

A  labour  worthy  of  eternal  youth! 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


LEONARDO'S  "LAST  SUPPER"  AT  MILAN 

COME  !  if  thy  heart  be  pure,  thy  spirits  calm. 
If  thou  hast  no  harsh  feelings,  or  but  those 
Which  self-reproach  inflicts, — ah  no,  bestows, — 
Her  wounds,  here  probed,  find  here  their  gentlest 

balm. 

O  the  sweet  sadness  of  that  lifted  palm ! 
The  dreadful  deed  to  come  his  lips  disclose; 
Yet  love  and  awe,  not  wrath,  that  countenance 

shows, 
As  though  they  sang  even  now  that  ritual  psalm 


36         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Which  closed  the  feast  piacular.     Time  hath  done 
His  work  on  this  fair  picture ;  but  that  face 
His  outrage  awes.     Stranger !  the  mist  of  years 
Between  thee  hung  and  half  its  heavenly  grace, 
Hangs  there,  a  fitting  veil;  nor  that  alone, — 
Gaze  on  it  also  through  a  veil  of  tears ! 

AUBREY  DE  VERB. 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  THE  ROOF  OF 
MILAN  CATHEDRAL 

"A  mount  of  marble,  a  hundred  spires." 

THE  long,  long  night  of  utter  loneliness, 
Of  conflict,  pain,  defeat,  and  sore  distress, 
Hath  vanished;   and  I   stand  as   one  whose  life 
Wages  with  death  a  scarcely  winning  strife, 
Here  on  this  mount  of  marble.     Like  a  sea 
Waveless  and  blue,  the  sky's  transparency 
Bathes  spire  and  statue.    Was  it  man  or  God 
Who  built  those  domes,  whereon  the  feet  have  trod 
Of  eve  and  night  and  morn  with  rose  and  gold 
And  silver  and  strange  symbols  manifold 
Of  shadow?    Fabric  not  of  stone  but  mist 
Or  pearl  or  cloud  beneath  heaven's  amethyst 
Glitters  the  marvel :  cloud  congealed  to  shine 
Through  centuries  with  lustre  crystalline ; 
Pearl  spiked  and  fretted  like  an  Orient  shell ; 
Mist  on  the  frozen  fern-wreaths  of  a  well. 


MILAN  37 

Not  God's  but  man's  work  this :  God's  yonder  fane, 
Reared  on  the  distant  limit  of  the  plain. 
Around  me  rise  the  grey-green  olive  trees, 
From  azure  into  azure,  to  blue  sky 
Shooting  from  vapours  blue  that  folded  lie 
Round  valley-basements,  robed  in  royal  snow, 
Wheref rom  life-giving  waters  leaping  flow, 
Aerial  Monte  Rosa! — God  and  man 
Confront  each  other,  with  this  narrow  span 
Of  plain  to  part  them,  try  what  each  can  do 
To  make  applauding  Seraphs  from  the  blue 
Lean  marvel-smitten,  or  alight  with  song 
Upon  the  glittering  peaks,  or  clustering  throng 
The  spacious  pathways.    God  on  man's  work  here 
Hath  set  His  signature  and  symbol  clear; 
Man's  soul  that  thinks  and  feels,  to  God's  work 

there 

Gives  life,  which  else  were  cold  and  dumb  and  bare. 
God  is  man's  soul ;  man's  soul  a  spark  of  God : 
By  God  in  man  the  dull  terrestrial  clod 
Becomes  a  thing  of  beauty ;  thinking  man 
Through  God  made  manifest,  outrival  can 
His  handiwork  of  nature.     Do  we  dream 
Mingling  reality  with  things  that  seem? 
Or  is  it  true  that  God  and  man  appear 
One  soul  in  sentient  art  self-conscious  here, 
One  soul  o'er  senseless  nature  stair  by  stair 
Raised  to  create  by  comprehending  there? 
JOHN  ADDJNGTON  SYMONDS, 


38         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

MILAN  CATHEDRAL, 

O  PEEELESS  church  of  old  Milan, 

How  brightly  thou  com'st  back  to  me, 

With  all  thy  minarets  and  towers, 
And  sculptured  marbles  fair  to  see ! 

With  all  thy  airy  pinnacles 

So  white  against  the  cloudless  blue ; 

With  all  thy  richly  storied  panes, 

And  mellowed  sunlight  streaming  through. 

O  lovely  church  of  loved  Milan, 

Can  sadness  with  thy  brightness  blend? 

Lo !  moving  down  that  high-arched  aisle, 
Those  mourners  for  an  absent  friend. 

In  every  hand  a  lighted  torch, 

Above  the  dead  a  sable  pall, 
On  every  face  a  look  that  tells, 

She  was  the  best  beloved  of  all. 

And  low  and  faint  the  funeral  chant 
Subdued  the  pealing  organ's  tone, 

As  past  the  altars  of  her  faith 

They  slow  and  silent  bear  her  on. 

O  holy  church  of  proud  Milan, 
A  simpler  tomb  enshrines  for  me 

The  one  I  loved,  who  never  stood 
As  now  I  stand  to  gaze  on  thee. 


MILAN  39 

Yet  all  I  see  perchance  she  sees, 
And  chides  not  the  unbidden  tear, 

That  flows  to  think  how  vain  the  wish, 
My  life's  companion,  thou  wert  here! 

O  solemn  church  of  gay  Milan 

I  owe  that  pensive  hour  to  thee ; 
And  oft  may  sacred  sadness  dwell 

Within  my  soul  to  temper  glee! 

Those  airy  pinnaces  that  shine 

So  white  against  the  dark  blue  sky, 

Ascend  from  tranquil  vaults  where  bones 
Which  wait  the  resurrection  lie ! 

HENRY  GLASSFORD  BELL. 


ON  MILAN  CATHEDRAL 

SHROUDED  in  grey 
The  city  lay, 
And  the  fog  and  the  gargoyles  were  friends  that 

day, 
When  high  in  the  tower  I  took  my  stand 

And  scanned 

The  dull  panorama  for  signs  of  fabled  Switzer- 
land. 


40         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Vapor-lashes  veiled  the  sun  god's  glance, 
Dark  as  doubt  and  dense  as  ignorance. 

But  suddenly 
Apollo  shook  his  damp  curls  dewy-free. 

And  straight  there  glowed,  as  glows  the  morn, 
Monte  Rosa  and  Matterhorn, 
And  lo — haze  curtains  of  saffron  and  rose 
From  Bernard  and  Viso  and  Blanc  were  torn. 

And  I  thought  how  the  mists  of  my  morning  had 

melted  away, 

When  maturity  looked  with  the  eyes  of  the  day; 
And  I  pondered  what  ultimate  ranges  the  noon 

would  disclose 
That  still  remain  shrouded  in  grey. 

ROBERT  HAVEN  SCHAUFFLER. 


LAKE  COMO 


LAKE  OF  COMO 

MORE  pleased,  my  foot  the  hidden  margin  roves 
Of  Como,  bosomed  deep  in  chestnut  groves. 
No  meadows  thrown  between,  the  giddy  steeps 
Tower,  bare  or  sylvan,  from  the  narrow  deeps. 
To  towns,  whose  shades  of  no  rude  noise  complain, 
From  ringing  team  apart  and  grating  wain, — 
To    flat-roofed    towns,    that    touch    the    water's 

bound, 

Or  lurk  in  woody  sunless  glens  profound, 
Or,  from  the  bending  rocks,  obtrusive  cling, 
And  o'er  the  whitened  wave  their  shadows  fling, — 
The  pathway  leads,  as  round  the  steeps  it  twines ; 
And  silence  loves  its  purple  roof  of  vines. 
The  loitering  traveller  hence,  at  evening,  sees 
From  rock-hewn  steps  the  sail  between  the  trees ; 
Or  marks,  mid  opening  cliffs,  fair  dark-eyed  maids 
Tend  the  small  harvest  of  their  garden  glades  ; 
Or  stops  the  solemn  mountain-shades  to  view 
Stretch  o'er  the  pictured  mirror  broad  and  blue, 
And  track  the  yellow  lights  from  steep  to  steep, 
As  up  the  opposing  hills  they  slowly  creep. 

41 


4£         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Aloft,  here,  half  a  village  shines,  arrayed 

In  golden  light;  half  hides  itself  in  shade: 

While,  from  amid  the  darkened  roofs,  the  spire, 

Restlessly  flashing,  seems  to  mount  like  fire: 

There,  all  unshaded,  blazing  forests  throw 

Rich  golden  verdure  on  the  lake  below. 

Slow  glides  the  sail  along  the  illumined  shore, 

And  steals  into  the  shade  the  lazy  oar ; 

Soft  bosoms  breathe  around  contagious  sighs, 

And  amorous  music  on  the  water  dies. 

How  blest,  delicious  scene !  the  eye  that  greets 
Thy  open  beauties  or  thy  lone  retreats, — 
Beholds  the  unwearied  sweep  of  wood  that  scales 
Thy  cliffs ;  the  endless  waters  of  thy  vales ; 
Thy  lowly  cots  that  sprinkle  all  the  shore, 
Each  with  its  household  boat  beside  the  door ; 
Thy  torrent  shooting  from  the  clear-blue  sky ; 
Thy  towns,  that  cleave,  like  swallows'  nests,  on 

high; 

That  glimmer  hoar  in  eve's  last  light,  descried 
Dim  from  the  twilight  water's  shaggy  side, 
Whence  lutes  and  voices  down  the  enchanted  woods 
Steal,  and  compose  the  oar-forgotten  floods ; 
Thy  lake,  that,  streaked  or  dappled,  blue  or  gray, 
Mid  smoking  woods  gleams  hid  from  morning's 

ray 

Slow-travelling  down  the  western  hills,  to  enfold 
Its  green-tinged  margin  in  a  blaze  of  gold; 


LAKE  COMO  43 

Thy  glittering  steeples,  whence  the  matin  bell 
Calls  forth  the  woodman  from  his  desert  cell, 
And  quickens  the  blithe  sound  of  oars  that  pass 
Along  the  steaming  lake,  to  early  mass. 
But  now  farewell  to  each  and  all, — adieu 
To  every  charm,  and  last  and  chief  to  you, 
Ye  lovely  maidens  that  in  noontide  shade 
Rest  near  your  little  plots  of  wheaten  glade ; 
To  all  that  binds  the  soul  in  powerless  trance, 
Lip-dewing  song,  and  ringlet-tossing  dance; 
Where  sparkling  eyes  and  breaking  smiles  illume 
The  sylvan  cabin's  lute-enlivened  gloom. 
Alas!  the  very  murmur  of  the  streams 
Breathes  o'er  the  failing  soul  voluptuous  dreams, 
While  slavery,  forcing  the  sunk  mind  to  dwell 
On  joys  that  might  disgrace  the  captive's  cell, 
Her  shameless  timbrel  shakes  on  Como's  marge, 
And  lures  from  bay  to  bay  the  vocal  barge. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


LAKE  COMO 

AROUND  me  rise  the  gray-green  olive  trees, 
The  palm,  the  pine,  the  lemon  and  the  fig; 

A  spray  of  honeysuckle  scents  the  breeze 
A-dangle  from  a  slim  acacia  twig. 


44         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Bronze,    green   with   moss,    this   Triton-fountain 

plays, 

While  red  and  orange  fishes  swim  below ; 
Like    blushing    nymphs    a-peep    through    misty 

sprays, 
I  see  the  scarlet-robed  geraniums  glow. 

Here  gowned  in  pink,  with  copper-tinted  cheek, 
An  ardent  rose  swings  from  a  trailing  vine, 

And  hanging  yellow  with  a  crimson  streak, 
A  ripe,  round  peach  is  waiting  to  be  mine. 

Canary-coloured  asters  blaze  and  burn, 

Carnations  in  flame-coloured  garbs  are  gowned ; 

The  clustered  grapes  to  gold  and  purple  turn, 
With  honeyed  nectars  swelling  ripe  and  round. 

Along  this  wall  the  blue  wistaria  blows, 

The  green  magnolia  lifts  her  milk-white  flowers ; 

The  poppy  like  a  Cleopatra  glows, 

And  trumpet-blossoms  droop  in  scarlet  showers. 

Queen  over  all,  the  oleander  blooms, 

And  scatters  pink-white  snows  across  the  lawn ; 
Her  splendour  glimmers  through  the  verdant 
glooms 

As  rosy  and  as  radiant  as  the  dawn. 


LAKE  COMO  45 

Beyond,  the  lake  is  darkest,  deepest  green; 

Its  emerald  surges  toss  with  tiny  boats ; 
Far-reaching  over  all  the  peaceful  scene, 

The  shadow  of  a  mighty  mountain  floats. 

The  terraced  villas  fleck  the  mountain  side 
With  walls  of  buff  and  brown  and  ochre-red ; 

And  over  all  the  prospect  far  and  wide 
A  saffron  tower  uplifts  its  slender  head. 

A  monastery  crowns  a  hazy  height; 

Luxuriant  creepers  cover  half  the  stones ; 
Above  the  creamy  walls,  in  amber  light, 

The  cypress  rears  its  trim-sharp-pointed  cones. 

Far-off,  in  deepest,  softest,  dimmest  blue, 

The  faint,  faint  mountains  melt  in  mellow  skies, 

As  dreamy-sweet  as  one  whose  soul  is  true, 
When  saying  that  she  loves  me  with  her  eyes. 

As  night  comes  on,  a  cloud  all  rosy-red 

Conceals  the  splendour  of  the  silvery  moon ; 

Then  sunset's  crocus  petals  all  are  shed, 
And  like  a  golden  melon  hangs  the  moon. 

Across  the  lake,  aglitter  light  on  light, 
Strung  like  a  necklace,  little  cities  gleam, 

While  harps   and  bugles   through  the  fragrant 

night, 
Lure  sleepless  lovers  to  a  land  of  dream. 


46         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Yet  beauty  such  as  this  must  end  at  last, 
And  so  a  tempest  gathers  in  its  might. 

The  thunders  roll,  trees  shiver  in  the  blast, 

And  angry  lightnings   pierce  the   shuddering 
night. 

Sheet  after  sheet,  the  furious  torrents  fall, 

Flame  after  flame,  the  swords  of  heaven  flash. 

The  locust  boughs  are  snapped  against  the  wall, 
The  fisher-boats  against  the  beaches  dash. 

Night,  like  a  passion-mad  Elizabeth, 

Smites  day,  her  Essex  loved  in  bygone  years, 

Then,  horror-stricken  at  her  darling's  death, 
Pours  on  his  grave  a  torrent  of  her  tears. 

WALTER  MALONE. 


CADENABBIA 

No  SOUND  of  wheels  or  hoof -beat  breaks 
The  silence  of  the  summer  day, 

As  by  the  loveliest  of  all  lakes 
I  while  the  idle  hours  away. 

I  pace  the  leafy  colonnade 

Where  level  branches  of  the  plane 
Above  me  weave  a  roof  of  shade 

Impervious  to  the  sun  and  rain. 


LAKE  COMO  47 

At  times  a  sudden  rush  of  air 
Flutters  the  lazy  leaves  o'erhead, 

And  gleams  of  sunshine  toss  and  flare 
Like  torches  down  the  path  I  tread. 

By  Somariva's  garden  gate 

I  make  the  marble  stairs  my  seat, 
And  hear  the  water,  as  I  wait, 

Lapping  the  steps  beneath  my  feet. 

The  undulation  sinks  and  swells 

Along  the  stony  parapets, 
And  far  away  the  floating  bells 

Tinkle  upon  the  fisher's  nets. 

Silent  and  slow,  by  tower  and  town 
The  freighted  barges  come  and  go, 
By  town  and  tower  submerged  below. 

Their  pendent  shadows  gliding  down 

The  hills  sweep  upward  from  the  shore 

With  villas  scattered  one  by  one 
Upon  their  wooded  spurs,  and  lower 

Bellaggio  blazing  in  the  sun. 

And  dimly  seen,  a  tangled  mass 

Of  walls  and  woods,  of  light  and  shade, 

Stands  beckoning  up  the  Stelvio  Pass 
Varenna  with  its  white  cascade. 


48         THBOUSH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

I  ask  myself,  Is  this  a  dream? 

Will  it  all  vanish  into  air? 
Is  there  a  land  of  such  supreme 

And  perfect  beauty  anywhere? 

Sweet  vision!  Do  not  fade  away; 

Linger  until  my  heart  shall  take 
Into  itself  the  summer  day, 

And  all  the  beauty  of  the  lake. 

Linger  until  upon  my  brain 

Is  stamped  an  image  of  the  scene, 

Then  fade  into  the  air  again, 
And  be  as  if  thou  hadst  not  been. 

HENEY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


LAKE  VARESE 


LAGO  VARESE 

I  STOOD  beside  Varese's  Lake, 
Mid  that  redundant  growth 
Of  vines  and  maize  and  bower  and  brake 

Which  Nature,  kind  to  sloth, 
And  scarce  solicited  by  human  toil, 
Pours  from  the  riches  of  the  teeming  soil. 

A  mossy  softness  distance  lent 

To  each  divergent  hill, 
One  crept  away  looking  back  as  it  went, 

The  rest  lay  round  and  still ; 

The  westering  sun  not  dazzling  now,  though  bright 
Shed  o'er  the  mellow  land  a  molten  light. 

And,  sauntering  up  a  circling  cove, 

I  found  upon  the  strand 
A  shallop,  and  a  girl  who  strove 

To  drag  it  to  dry  land : 

I  stood  to  see  the  girl  look  round;  her  face 
Had  all  her  country's  clear  and  definite  grace. 

49 


50         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

She  rested  with  the  air  of  rest 

So  seldom  seen,  of  those 
Whose  toil  remitted  gives  a  zest, 

Not  languor,  to  repose. 

Her  form  was  poised  yet  buoy  ant,  firm  though  free 
And  liberal  of  her  bright  black  eyes  was  she. 

Her  hue  reflected  back  the  skies 
Which  reddened  in  the  west; 
And  joy  was  laughing  in  her  eyes 

And  bounding  in  her  breast, 
Its  rights  and  grants  exulting  to  proclaim 
Where  pride  had  no  inheritance,  nor  shame. 


Metfyought  this  scene  before  mine  eyes, 

Still  glowing  with  yon  sun, 
Which  seemed  to  melt  the  myriad  dyes 

Of  heaven  and  earth  to  one, 
A  diverse  unity, — methought  this  scene, 
These  undulant  hills,  the  woods  that  intervene, 

The  multiplicity  of  growth, 

The  cornfield  and  the  brake, 
The  trellised  vines  that  cover  both, 

The  purple-bosomed  lake, 
Some  fifty  summers  hence  may  all  be  found 
Rich  in  the  charms  wherewith  they  now  abound. 


LAKE  VAEESE  51 

And  should  I  take  my  staff  again, 

And  should  I  journey  here, 
My  steps  may  be  less  steady  then, 

My  eyesight  not  so  clear, 
And  from  the  mind  the  sense  of  beauty  may, 
Even  as  these  bodily  gifts,  have  passed  away ; 

But  grant  my  age  but  eyes  to  see 

A  still  susceptive  mind, 
All  that  leaves  us,  and  all  that  we 

Leave  wilfully  behind, 

And  nothing  here  would  want  the  charms  it  wore 
Save  only  she  who  stands  upon  the  shore. 

HENEY  TAYLOB. 


LAKE  MAGGIORE 

STANZAS 

ADDRESSED  TO  W.  E.  TUENEE,  E.A.,  ON  HIS  VIEW  OF 

THE   LAGO   MAGGIOEE   FEOM   THE 

TOWN    OF    AEONA 

TUENEE,  thy  pencil  brings  to  mind  a  day 
When  from  Laveno  and  the  Beuscer  Hill 

I  over  Lake  Verbanus  held  my  way 

In  pleasant  fellowship,  with  wind  at  will; 

Smooth  were  the  waters  wide,  the  sky  serene, 

And  our  hearts  gladdened  with  the  j  oyf  ul  scene ; — 

Joyful,  for  all  things  ministered  delight, — 

The  lake  and  land,  the  mountains  and  the  vales ; 

The  Alps  their  snowy  summits  reared  in  light, 
Tempering  with  gelid  breath  the  summer  gales ; 

And  verdant  shores  and  woods  refreshed  the  eye, 

That  else  had  ached  beneath  that  brilliant  sky. 

To  that  elaborate  island  were  we  bound, 
Of  yore  the  scene  of  Borromean  pride, — 

Folly's  prodigious  work;  where  all  around, 
Under  its  coronet,  and  self -belied, 

Look  where  you  will,  you  cannot  choose  but  see 

The  obtrusive  motto's  proud  "Humility !" 

52 


LAKE  MAGGIORE  53 

Far  off  the  Borromean  saint  was  seen, 

Distinct,  though  distant,  o'er  his  native  town, 

Where  his  Colossus  with  benignant  mien 
Looks  from  its  station  on  Arona  down ; 

To  it  the  inland  sailor  lifts  his  eyes, 

From  the  wide  lake,  when  perilous  storms  arise. 

But  no  storm  threatened  on  that  summer  day ; 

The  whole  rich  scene  appeared  for  j  oyance  made 
With  many  a  gliding  bark  the  mere  was  gay, 

The  fields  and  groves  in  all  their  wealth  arrayed : 
I  could  have  thought  the  sun  beheld  with  smiles 
Those  towns  and  palaces  and  populous  isles. 

From  fair  Arona,  even  on  such  a  day, 

When  gladness  was  descending  like  a  shower, 

Great  painter,  did  thy  gifted  eye  survey 

The  splendid  scene ;  and,  conscious  of  its  power, 

Well  hath  thine  hand  inimitable  given 

The  glories  of  the  lake  and  land  and  heaven. 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY. 


TURIN 

MOTHER  AND  POET 

Turin,  after  News  from  Gaeta,  1861 

DEAD  !    One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 

Dead !  both  my  boys !    When  you  sit  at  the  feast 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me! 

Yet  I  was  a  poetess  only  last  year, 

And  good  at  my  art,  for  a  woman,  men  said ; 

But  this  woman,  this,  who  is  agoniz'd  here, — 
The  east  and  west  sea  rhyme  on  in  her  head 
For  ever  instead. 

What  art  can  a  woman  be  good  at?    Oh  vain! 

What  art  is  she  good  at,  but  hurting  her  breast 
With  the  milk-teeth  of  babes,  and  a  smile  at  the 

pain? 
Ah  boys,  how  you  hurt !  you  were  strong  as  you 

press'd. 

And  I  proud,  by  that  test. 
64 


TURIN  65 

What  art's  for  a  woman  ?  To  hold  on  her  knees 
Both  darlings ;  to  feel  all  their  arms  round  her 

throat,  * 

Cling,  strangle  a  little,  to  sew  by  degrees 

And  'broider  the  long-clothes   and  neat  little 

coat; 
To  dream  and  to  doat. 

To  teach  them     ...     It  stings  there !    I  made 

them  indeed 
Speak  plain  the  word  country.  I  taught  them, 

no  doubt, 
That  a  country's  a  thing  men  should  die  for  at 

need. 

I  prated  of  liberty,  rights,  and  about 
The  tyrant  cast  out. 

And  when  their  eyes  flash'd     .     .     .     O  my  beau- 
tiful eyes!     .     .     . 

I  exulted ;  nay,  let  them  go  forth  at  the  wheels 
Of  the  guns,  and  denied  not.     But  then  the  sur- 
prise 
When  one  sits  quite  alone!     Then  one  weeps, 

then  one  kneels ! 
God,  how  the  house  feels ! 

At  first,  happy  news  came,  in  gay  letters  moil'd 
With  my  kisses, — of  camp-life  and  glory,  and 
how 


56         THBOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

They  both  lov'd  me ;  and,  soon  coming  home  to  be 

spoil'd, 

In  return  would  fan  off  every  fly  from  my  brow 
With  their  green  laurel-bough. 

Then  was  triumph  at  Turin :  "Ancona  was  free !" 
And  someone  came  out   of  the  cheers  in  the 

street, 

With  a  face  pale  as  stone,  to  say  something  to  me. 
My  Guido  was  dead !    I  fell  down  at  his  feet, 
While  they  cheer'd  in  the  street. 

I  bore  it ;  friends  sooth'd  me ;  my  grief  look'd  sub- 
lime 

As  the  ransom  of  Italy.    One  boy  remained 
To  be  leant  on  and  walk'd  with,  recalling  the  time 
When  the  first  grew  immortal,  while  both  of  us 

strain'd 
To  the  height  he  had  gain'd. 

And    letters    still    came,    shorter,    sadder,    more 

strong, 

Writ  now  but  in  one  hand,  "I  was  not  to  faint — 
One  lov'd  me  for  two — would  be  with  me  ere  long : 
And  Viva  I'  Italia! — he  died  for,  our  saint, 
Who  forbids  our  complaint." 

My  Nanni  would  add,  "he  was  safe,  and  aware 
Of  a  presence  that  turn'd  off  the  balls, — was 
impress'd 


TURIN  57 

It  was  Guido  himself,  who  knew  what  I  could  bear, 
And  how  't  was  impossible,  quite  dispossessed, 
To  live  on  for  the  rest." 


On  which,  without  pause,  up  the  telegraph-line, 
Swept  smoothly  the  next  news  from  Gaeta: — 

Shot. 
Tell  his  mother.    Ah,  ah,  "his"  "their"  mother,— 

not  "mine," 

No  voice  says  "My  mother"  again  to  me.  What ! 
You  think  Guido  forgot  ? 

Are   souls    straight    so   happy   that,   dizzy    with 

Heaven, 
They  drop  earth's  affections,  conceive  not  of 

woe? 

I  think  not.     Themselves  were  too  lately  forgiven 
Through  that  LOVE  and  Sorrow  which  recon- 

cil'd  so 
The  Above  and  Below. 

O  Christ  of  the  five  wounds,  who  look'dst  through 

the  dark 

To  the  face  of  Thy  mother !  consider,  I  pray, 
How  we  common  mothers  stand  desolate,  mark, 
Whose  sons,  not  being  Christs,  die  with  eyes 

turn'd  away, 
And  no  last  word  to  say ! 


58         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Both  boys  dead?    but  that's  out  of  nature.     We 

all 
Have  been  patriots,  yet  each  house  must  always 

keep  one. 

'Twere  imbecile,  hewing  out  roads  to  a  wall ; 
And,  when  Italy's  made,  for  what  end  is  it  done 
If  we  have  not  a  son  ? 

Ah,  ah,  ah !    when  Gaeta's  taken,  what  then  ? 

When  the  fair  wicked  queen  sits  no  more  at  her 

sport 
Of  the  fire-balls  of  death  crashing  souls  out  of 

men? 

When  the  guns  of  Cavalli  with  final  retort 
Have  cut  the  game  short? 

When  Venice  and  Rome  keep  their  new  jubilee, 
WThen  your  flag  takes  all  heaven  for  its  white, 

green,  and  red, 
When  you  have  your  country  from  mountain  to 

sea, 
When  King  Victor  has  Italy's  crown  on  his 

head, 
(And  I  have  my  Dead) — 

What  then?     Do  not  mock  me.     Ah,  ring  your 

bells  low, 

And  burn  your  lights  faintly!    My  country  is 
there. 


TURIN  59 

Above  the  star  prick'd  by  the  last  peak  of  snow : 
My  Italy's  THERE,  with  my  brave  civic  Pair, 
To  disfranchise  despair ! 

Forgive  me.  Some  women  bear  children  in  strength 
And  bite  back  the  cry  of  their  pain  in  self- 
scorn  ; 
But  the  birth-pangs  of  nations  will  wring  us  at 

length 

Into  wail  such  as  this — and  we  sit  on  forlorn 
When  the  man-child  is  born. 

Dead !    One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea, 

Both !  both  my  boys !    If  in  keeping  the  feast 
You  want  a  great  song  for  your  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me. 

(This  was  Laura  Savio,  of  Turin,  a  poet  and 
patriot,  whose  sons  were  killed  at  Ancona  and 
Gaeta.) 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


THE  RIVER  PO 


THE    PO 

THE  Po,  that,  rushing  with  uncommon  force, 
O'ersets  whole  woods  in  its  tumultuous  course, 
And,  rising  from  Hesperia's  watery  veins, 
The  exhausted  land  of  all  its  moisture  drains — 
The  Po,  as  sings  the  fable,  first  conveyed 
Its  wandering  current  through  a  poplar  shade : 
For  when  your  Phaeton  mistook  his  way, 
Lost  and  confounded  in  the  blaze  of  day, 
This  river,  with  surviving  streams  supplied, 
When  all  the  rest  of  the  whole  earth  was  dried, 
And  nature's  self  lay  ready  to  expire, 
Quenched  the  dire  flame  that  set  the  world  on  fire. 

LTJCAN. 
Tr.  Joseph  Addison. 


STANZAS  TO  THE  PO. 

RIVER,  that  rollest  by  the  ancient  walls, 

Where  dwells  the  lady  of  my  love,  when  she 

Walks  by  thy  brink,  and  there  perchance  recalls 
A  faint  and  fleeting  memory  of  me ; 
60 


THE  RIVER  Po  61 

What  if  thy  deep  and  ample  stream  should  be 
A  mirror  of  my  heart,  where  she  may  read 

The  thousand  thoughts  I  now  betray  to  thee, 
Wild  as  thy  wave,  and  headlong  as  thy  speed! 

What  do  I  say, — a  mirror  of  my  heart? 

Are  not  thy  waters  sweeping,  dark,  and  strong? 
Such  as  my  feelings  were  and  are,  thou  art; 

And  such  as  thou  art,  were  my  passions  long. 

Time  may  have  somewhat  tamed  them, — not  for- 
ever; 

Thou  overflow'st  thy  banks  and  not  for  aye 
Thy  bosom  overboils,  congenial  river ! 

Thy  floods  subside,  and  mine  have  sunk  away. 

But  left  long  wrecks  behind,  and  now  again, 
Borne  in  our  old  unchanged  career,  we  move ; 

Thou  tendest  wildly  onwards  to  the  main, 
And  I — to  loving  one  I  should  not  love. 

The  current  I  behold  will  sweep  beneath 

Her  native  walls,  and  murmur  at  her  feet ; 

Her  eyes  will  look  on  thee,  when  she  shall  breathe 
The  twilight  air  unharmed  by  summer's  heat. 

She  will  look  on  thee, — I  have  looked  on  thee, 
Full  of  that  thought;  and  from  that  moment, 
ne'er 

Thy  waters  could  I  dream  of,  name,  or  see, 
Without  the  inseparable  sigh  of  her! 


62         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Her  bright  eyes  will  be  imaged  in  thy  stream, — 
Yes !  they  will  meet  the  wave  I  gaze  on  now ; 

Mine  cannot  witness,  even  in  a  dream, 
That  happy  wave  repass  me  in  its  flow ! 

The  wave  that  bears  my  tears  returns  no  more 
Will  she  return  by  whom  that  wave  shall  sweep  ? 

Both  tread  thy  banks,  both  wander  on  thy  shore, 
I  by  the  source,  she  by  the  dark-blue  deep. 

But  that  which  keepeth  us  apart  is  not 

Distance,  nor  depth  of  wave,  nor  space  of  earth, 

But  the  distraction  of  a  various  lot, 

As  various  as  the  climates  of  our  birth. 

A  stranger  loves  the  lady  of  the  land, 

Born  far  beyond  the  mountains,  but  his  blood 

Is  all  meridian,  as  if  never  fanned 

By  the  black  wind  that  chills  the  polar  flood. 

My  blood  is  all  meridian ;  were  it  not, 
I  had  not  left  my  clime,  nor  should  I  be, 

In  spite  of  tortures  ne'er  to  be  forgot, 
A  slave  again  of  love, — at  least  of  thee. 

'Tis  vain  to  struggle, — let  me  perish  young, — 
Live  as  I  lived,  and  love  as  I  have  loved ; 

To  dust  if  I  return,  from  dust  I  sprung, 

And  then,  at  least,  my  heart  can  ne'er  be  moved. 

LORD  BYRON. 


THE  RIVIERA 


RIVIERA  DI  PONENTE 

ON  this  lovely  Western   shore,  where  no  tempests 
rage  and  roar, 

Over  olive-bearing  mountains,  by  the  deep  and  vio- 
let sea, 

There,   through  each  long   happy  day,   winding 
slowly  on  our  way, 

Travellers  from  across  the  ocean,  toward  Italia 

journeyed  we, — 

Each  long  day,  that,  richer,  fairer, 
Showed  the  charming  Riviera. 

There  black  war-ships  doze  at  anchor,  in  the  Bay 

of  Villa-Franca ; 
Eagle-like,  gray  Esa,  clinging  to  its  rocky  perch 

looks  down ; 
And  upon  the  mountain  dim,  ruined,   shattered, 

stern,  and  grim, 
Turbia  sees  us  through  the  ages  with  its  austere 

Roman  frown, — 

While  we  climb,  where  cooler,  rarer 
Breezes  sweep  the  Riviera. 


64)         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Down  the  hillside  steep  and  stony,  through  the  old 

streets  of  Mentone, 
Quiet,  half -forgotten  city  of  a  drowsy  prince  and 

time, 
Through  the  mild  Italian  midnight,  rolls  upon  the 

wave  the  moonlight, 
Murmuring  in  our  dreams  the  cadence  of  a  strange 

Ligurian  rhyme, — 

Rhymes  in  which  each  heart  is  sharer, 
Journeying  on  the  Riviera. 

When  the  morning  air  comes  purer,  creeping  up 

in  our  vettura, 
Eastward  gleams  a  rosy  tumult  with  the  rising  of 

the  day. 
Toward  the  north,  with  gradual   changes,   steal 

along  the  mountain-ranges 
Tender  tints  of  warmer  feeling,  kissing  all  their 

peaks  of  gray ; 

And  far  south  the  waters  wear  a 
Smile  along  the  Riviera. 

Helmed  with  snow,  the  Alpine  giants  at  invaders 
look  defiance, 

Gazing  over  nearer  summits,  with  a  fixed,  mys- 
terious stare, 

Down  along  the  shaded  ocean,  on  whose  edge  in 
tremulous  motion 


THE  RIVIERA  65 

Floats  an  island,  half  transparent,  woven  out  of 

sea  and  air; — 

For  such  visions  shaped  of  air,  are 
Frequent  on  our  Riviera. 

He  whose  mighty   earthquake-tread   all  Europa 

shook  with  dread, 
Chief  whose  infancy  was  cradled  in  that  old  Tyr- 

rhenic  isle, 
Joins  the  shades  of  trampling  legions,  bringing 

from  remotest  regions 
Gallic   fire   and   Roman   valour,   Cimbric   daring, 

Moorish  guile, 

Guests  from  every  age  to  share  a 
Portion  of  this  Riviera. 

Then  the  Afric  brain,  whose  story  fills  the  cen- 
turies with  its  glory, 

Moulding  Gaul  and  Carthaginian  into  one  all-con- 
quering band, 
With  his  tusked  monsters  grumbling,  mid  the  alien 

snow-drifts  stumbling, 
Then,  an  avalanche  of  ruin,  thundering  from  that 

frozen  land 

Into  vales  their  sons  declare  are 
Sunny  as  our  Riviera. 

Thus  forever,  in  our  musing,  comes  man's  spirit 

interfusing 
Thought  of  poet  and  of  hero  with  the  landscape 

and  the  sky ; 


66         THEOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

And  this  shore,  no  longer  lonely,  lives  the  life  of 

romance  only : 
Gauls  and  Moors  and  Northern  Sea-Kings,  all  are 

gliding,  ghostlike,  by. 
So  with  Nature  man  is  sharer 
Even  on  the  Riviera. 

JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE. 


MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  RIVIERA 

Buoyant,  exulting 
I  thread  in  the  morning 
Orchards  of  olive 
Up  to  the  heights; 
Wander  at  noonday, 
Quietly  pacing 
Gardens  of  palm  trees ; 
Then  in  the  evening 
Loll  in  my  balcony, 
Over  the  boundless 
Undulant  ocean 
Dreaming  and  dreaming. 

Swift  in  the  southland 
Steals  to  the  earth 
Tranquil-browed  evening. 
And  as  a  mother-hand  softly, 


THE  RIVIERA  67 

Crooningly  patters 

The  back  of  her  slumbering  infant, 

Softly  the  flood 

Beats  on  the  verdurous 

Rim  of  the  ocean: — 

Luller  of  continents, 

Drowsily  crooning 

Ditties  of  cradle-land. 

Slow  reappear 
From  their  dark  deeps 
Those  divers  the  stars, 
Singly  at  first, 
Here  one  and  here ; 
Then  all  at  once 
Everywhere,  everywhere, 
Richly  and  richlier ! 
Glitters  with  gold-dust 
The  ample,  the  far-flowing 
Mantle  of  Night 

And  with  the  stars 
As  if  fraternally 
Thoughts  arise  also. 
Timid  at  first, 
Scarcely  they  dare 
Venture  to  rise 
From  the  mysterious 
Caves  of  emotion; 


68         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

But  their  star-brothers 
Speak  to  them,  answer  them. 
Richly  and  richlier 
Flaming  they  come; 
Then  all  at  once, 
Everywhere !  everywhere ! 
Blindingly  infinite. 
Stand  over  me 
Star-worlds  and  thoughts. 

Now  in  her  glory 
Out  of  the  flood 
Rises  the  moon 
Throwing  across 
A  highway  of  light, 
And  the  star-brothers 
Wander  upon  it, 
To  thee,  Beloved. 
The  sea  is  resplendent 
And  the  palm-garlanded 
Spurs  of  the  mountains ! 
The  earth  is  resplendent, 
Resplendent  the  heavens 
Arrayed  in  the  moonbeams 
And  in  thy  love,  Dearest ! 

RICHARD  LEANDER. 
Tr.  Robert  Haven  Schauffler. 


THE  APENNINES 


PASSAGE  OF  THE  APENNINES 

LISTEN,  listen,  Mary  mine, 
To  the  whisper  of  the  Apennine ; 
It  bursts  on  the  roof  like  the  thunder's  roar, 
Or  like  the  sea  on  a  northern  shore, 
Heard  in  its  raging  ebb  and  flow 
By  the  captives  pent  in  the  cave  below. 
The  Apennine  in  the  light  of  day 
Is  a  mighty  mountain  dim  and  gray, 
Which  between  the  earth  and  sky  doth  lay ; 
But  when  night  comes,  a  chaos  dread 
On  the  dim  starlight  then  is  spread, 
And  the  Apennine  walks  abroad  with  the  storm. 
PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


TO  THE  APENNINES 

YOUR  peaks  are  beautiful,  ye  Apennines ! 

In  the  soft  light  of  these  serenes t  skies ; 
From  the  broad  highland  region,  black  with  pines, 

Fair  as  the  hills  of  Paradise  they  rise, 
Bathed  in  the  tint  Peruvian  slaves  behold 
In  rosy  flushes  on  the  virgin  gold. 


70         THEOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

There,  rooted  to  the  aerial  shelves  that  wear 
The  glory  of  a  brighter  world,  might  spring 

Sweet  flowers  of  heaven  to  scent  the  unbreathed  air 
And  heaven's  fleet  messengers  might  rest  the 
wing, 

To  view  the  fair  earth  in  its  summer  sleep, 

Silent,  and  cradled  by  the  glimmering  deep. 

Below  you  lie  men's  sepulchres,  the  old 

Etrurian  tombs,  the  graves  of  yesterday ; 
The   herd's   white   bones   lie  mixed  with   human 

mould, — 

Yet  up  the  radiant  steeps  that  I  survey 
Death  never  climbed,  nor  life's  soft  breath,  with 

pain, 
Was  yielded  to  the  elements  again. 

Ages  of  war  have  filled  these  plains  with  fear: 
How  oft  the  hind  has  started  at  the  clash 

Of  spears,  and  yell  of  meeting  armies  here, 
Or  seen  the  lightning  of  the  battle  flash 

From  clouds,  that,  rising  with  the  thunder's  sound, 

Hung  like  an  earth-born  tempest  o'er  the  ground ! 

Ah  me !  what  armed  nations — Asian  horde 

And  Lybian  host,  the  Scythian  and  the  Gaul — 

Have  swept  your  base  and  through  your  passes 

poured, 
Like  ocean-tides  uprising  at  the  call 


THE  APENNINES  71 

Of  tyrant  winds, — against  your  rocky  side 
The  bloody  billows  dashed,  and  howled,  and  died. 

i 

How  crashed  the  towers  before  beleaguering  foes, 
Sacked  cities  smoked,  and  realms  were  rent  in 

twain ; 

And  commonwealths  against  their  rivals  rose, 
Trod  out  their  lives,  and  earned  the  curse  of 

Cain: 

While  in  the  noiseless  air  and  light  that  flowed 
Round  your  far  brows,  eternal  Peace  abode. 

Here  pealed  the  impious  hymn,  and  altar  flames 
Rose  to  false  gods,  a  dream-begotten  throng, 

Jove,  Bacchus,  Pan,  and  earlier  fouler  names ; 
While,  as  the  unheeding  ages  passed  along, 

Ye,  from  your  station  in  the  middle  skies, 

Proclaimed   the   essential   Goodness,    strong   and 
wise. 

In  you  the  heart  that  sighs  for  freedom  seeks 
Her  image ;  there  the  winds  no  barrier  know, 
Clouds  come,  and  rest,  and  leave  your  fairy  peaks  ; 

While  even  the  immaterial  Mind,  below, 
And  Thought,  her  winged  offspring,  chained  by 

power, 
Pine  silently  for  the  redeeming  hour. 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 


SAVONA 


SAVONA 

VESPERS    ON   THE   SHORES   OF    THE   MEDITERRANEAN 

At  Savona,  a  very  ancient  little  city  on  the  coast 
of  Genoa,  there  stands  by  the  lighthouse  a  Ma- 
donna about  two  feet  high,  under  which  are  in- 
scribed two  Sapphic  verses,  which  are  both  good 
Latin  and  choice  Italian, — made  by  Gabriello 
Chiabrera,  "the  prince  of  Italian  lyric  poets,"  who 
was  a  native  of  Savona, — 

"In  mare  irato,  in  subita  procella, 
Invoco  te,  nostra  benigna  stella." 

RELIGION'S  purest  presence  was  not  found, 
By  the  first  followers  of  our  Saviour's  creed, 

In  stately  fanes  where  trump  and  timbrel  sound 
Sent  up  the  chorus  in  a  strain  agreed, 

And  where  the  decked  oblation's  wail  might  plead 

For  guilty  man  with  Abraham's  holy  seed. 

Not  in  vast  domes, — horizons  hung  by  men, 
Where  golden  panels  fret  a  marble  sky, 
12 


SAVONA  7S 

-And  things  below  look  up,  and  wonder  when 

Those  lifelike  seraphim  would  start  and  fly! 
Not  where  the  heart  is  mastered  by  the  eye 
Will  worship,  anthem-winged,  ascend  most  high. 

But  in  the  damp  cathedral  of  the  grove, 
Where  nature  feels  the  sanctitude  of  rest, 

Or  in  the  stillness  of  the  sheltered  cove 
Which  noiseless  waterfowl  alone  molest, 

At  times  a  reverence  will  pervade  the  breast 

Which  will  not  always  come,  a  bidden  guest. 

Oft  as  the  parting  smiles  of  day  and  night 
Flush  earth  and  ocean  with  a  roseate  hue, 

And  the  quick  changes  of  the  magic  light 
Prolong  the  glory  of  their  warm  adieu, 

Each  pilgrim  on  the  hills,  and  every  crew 

On  the  lulled  waters,  frame  their  vows  anew. 

Then  by  the  waves  that  lip  Liguaria's  land, 

In   Genoa's   gulf,   thou,   wanderer !   must   have 
heard 

What,  more  than  hymns  from  Pergolesi's  hand, 
The  living  soul  of  adoration  stirred, — 

And,  like  the  note  of  Spring's  first-welcomed  bird, 

Some  thoughts  awake  for  which  there  is  no  word. 

The  shipman's  chant!  as  noting  travellers  tell, 
In  either  language — old  and  new — the  same ; 


74         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

But  more  they  might  have  truly  said,  and  well, 

For  't  is  a  speech  the  universe  may  claim ; 
Men  of  all  times,  all  climes,  and  every  name, 
Devotion's  tongue !  which  from  the  Godhead  came. 


HYMN 

Tost  rudderless  around  the  deep 

By  Apennine  and  Alpine  blast, 
Which  o'er  the  surge  in  fury  sweep, 

And  make  a  bulrush  of  our  mast, 
We  murmur  in  our  half -hour's  sleep 

To  thee,  Madonna !  till  the  storm  be  past, 

In  mare  irato,  in  subita  procella, 

Invoco  te,  nostra  benigna  stella. 

Whether  for  weeks  our  bark  hath  striven 

And  locked  the  lightning  in  its  thunder  caves, 
We  know  whose  hand  its  help  has  given, 

With  death  in  wild  Sardinia's  waves, 
Or  downward  far  as  Tunis  driven, 

Threat  us  with  life, — the  life  of  slaves ; 

In  mare  irato,  in  subita  procella, 

Invoco  te,  nostra  benigna  stella. 

O  Virgin !  when  the  landsman's  hymn, 

At  vesper  time,  on  bended  knee, 
In  sunlit  aisle,  or  chapel  dim, 

Or  cloister  cell,  is  paid  to  thee, 


SAVONA  75 

Hear  us  that  ocean's  pavement  skim, 

And  j  oin  our  anthem  to  the  raging  sea : 
In  mare  irato,  in  subita  procella, 
Invoco  te,  nostra  benigna  stella. 

And  when  the  tempest's  wrath  is  o'er, 

And  tried  Libeccio  sinks  to  rest, 
And  starlight  falls  upon  the  shore 
Where  love  is  watching,  uncaressed, 
Though  hushed  the  tumult  and  the  roar, 

Again  the  prayer  we'll  chant  which  thou  hast 
blest; 

In  mare  irato,  in  subita  procella, 

Invoco  te,  nostra  benigna  stella. 

THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS. 


COGOLETO 


BOYHOOD  OF  COLUMBUS 

I  KNOW  not  when  this  hope  enthralled  me  first, 

But  from  my  boyhood  up  I  loved  to  hear 

The  tall  pine-forests  of  the  Apennine 

Murmur  their  hoary  legends  of  the  sea, 

Which  hearing,  I  in  vision  clear  beheld 

The  sudden  dark  of  tropic  night  shut  down 

O'er  the  huge  whisper  of  great  watery  wastes, 

The  while  a  pair  of  herons  trailingly 

Flapped    inland,    where    some    league-wide    river 

hurled 

The  yellow  spoil  of  unconjectured  realms 
Far  through  a  gulf's  green  silence,  never  scarred 
By  any  but  the  North-wind's  hurrying  keels. 
And  not  the  pines  alone ;  all  sights  and  sounds 
To  my  world-seeking  heart  and  fealty 
And  catered  for  it  as  the  Cretan  bees 
Brought  honey  to  the  baby  Jupiter, 
Who  in  his  soft  hand  crushed  a  violet, 
Godlike  f oremusing  the  rough  thunder's  gripe ; 
Then  did  I  entertain  the  poet's  song, 
My  great  Idea's  guest,  and,  passing  o'er 
That  iron  bridge  the  Tuscan  built  to  hell, 

76 


COGOLETO  7*7 

The  western  main  shook  growling,  and  still  gnawed 

I  heard  Ulysses  tell  of  mountain-chains 

Whose  adamantine  links,  his  manacles, 

1  brooded  on  the  wise  Athenian's  tale 

Of  happy  Atlantis,  and  heard  Bjorne's  keel 

Crunch  the  gray  pebbles  of  the  Vinland  shore: 

For  I  believed  the  poets ;  it  is  they 

Who  utter  wisdom  from  the  central  deep, 

And,  listening  to  the  inner  flow  of  things, 

Speak  to  the  age  out  of  eternity. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


GENOA 


APPROACH  TO  GENOA 

AT  length  the  day  departed,  and  the  moon 
liose  like  another  sun,  illuminating 
Waters  and  woods  and  cloud-capt  promontories, 
Glades  for  a  hermit's  cell,  a  lady's  bower, 
Scenes  of  .Elysium,  such  as  Night  alone 
Reveals  below,  nor  often, — scenes  that  fled 
As  at  the  waving  of  a  wizard's  wand, 
And  left  behind  them,  as  their  parting  gift, 
A  thousand  nameless  odors.    All  was  still ; 
And  now  the  nightingale  her  song  poured  forth 
In  such  a  torrent  of  heartfelt  delight, 
So  fast  it  flowed,  her  tongue  so  voluble, 
As  if  she  thought  her  hearers  would  be  gone 
Ere  half  was  told.    'T  was  where  in  the  northwest, 
Still  unassailed  and  unassailable, 
Thy  pharos,  Genoa,  first  displayed  itself  ^ 
Burning  in  stillness  on  its  craggy  seat ; 
That  guiding  star  so  oft  the  only  one, 
When  those  now  glowing  in  the  azure  vault 
Are  dark  and  silent.    'T  was  where  o'er  the  sea 
(For  we  were  now  within  a  cable's  length  ) 
Delicious  gardens  hung ;  green  galleries, 

78 


GENOA  79 

And  marble  terraces  in  many  a  flight, 

And  fairy  arches  flung  from  cliff  to  cliff, 

'Wildering,  enchanting ;  and,  above  them  all, 

A  palace,  such  as  somewhere  in  the  East, 

In  Zenastan  or  Araby  the  blest, 

Among  its  golden  groves  and  fruits  of  gold, 

And  fountains  scattering  rainbows  in  the  sky, 

Rose,  when  Aladdin  rubbed  the  wondrous  lamp ; 

Such,  if  not  fairer ;  and,  when  we  shot  by, 

A  scene  of  revelry,  in  long  array, 

As  with  the  radiance  of  the  setting  sun, 

The  windows  blazing.    But  we  now  approached 

A  city  far-renowned;  and  wonder  ceased. 

SAMUEL  ROGERS. 


GENOA 

NIGHT  AT  THE  PABADISO 

AH  !  what  avails  it,  Genoa,  now  to  thee 

That  Doria,  feared  by  monarchs,  once  was  thine? 

Univied  ruin !  in  thy  sad  decline 

From  virtuous  greatness,  what  avails  that  he 

Whose  prow  descended  first  the  Hesperian  sea, 

And  gave  our  world  her  mate  beyond  the  brine, 

Was  nurtured,  whilst  an  infant,  at  thy  knee? — 

All  things  must  perish, — all  but  things  divine. 

Flowers,  and  the  stars,  and  virtue,- — these  alone, 

The  self-subsisting  shapes,  or  self -renewing, 


80        THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Survive.     All  else  are  sentenced.     Wisest  were 
That  builder  who  should  plan  with  strictest  care 
(Ere  yet  the  wood  was  felled  or  hewn  the  stone) 
The  aspect  only  of  his  pile  in  ruin! 

AUBREY  DE  VERB. 


ON  THE  MONUMENT  ERECTED  TO 
MAZZINI  AT  GENOA 

ITALIA,  mother  of  the  souls  of  men, 

Mother  divine, 
Of  all  that  serv'd  thee  best  with  sword  or  pen, 

All  sons  of  thine, 

Thou  knowest  that  here  the  likeness  of  the  best 

Before  thee  stands ; 
The  head  most  high,  the  heart  found  faithfullest, 

The  purest  hands. 

Above  the  fume  and  foam  of  time  that  flits, 

The  soul,  we  know, 
Now  sits  on  high  where  Alighieri  sits 

With  Angelo. 

Nor  his  own  heavenly  tongue  hath  heavenly  speech 

Enough  to  say 

What  this  man  was,  whose  praise  no  thought  may 
reach, 

No  words  can  weigh. 


GENOA  81 

Since  man's  first  mother  brought  to  mortal  birth 

Her  first-born  son, 
Such  grace  befell  not  ever  man  on  earth 

As  crowns  this  One. 

Of  God  nor  man  was  ever  this  thing  said: 

That  he  could  give 
Life  back  to  her  who  gave  him,  that  his  dead 

Mother  might  live. 

But  this  man  found  his  mother  dead  and  slain, 

With  fast-seaPd  eyes, 
And  bade  the  dead  rise  up  and  live  again, 

And  she  did  rise : 

And  all  the  world  was  bright  with  her  through 
him: 

But  dark  with  strife, 
Like  heaven's  own  sun  that  storming  clouds  bedim, 

Was  all  his  life. 

Life  and  the  clouds  are  vanish Jd ;  hate  and  fear 

Have  had  their  span 
Of  time  to  hurt  and  are  not :  He  is  here 

The  sunlike  man. 

City  superb,  that  hadst  Columbus  first 

For  sovereign  son, 
Be  prouder  that  thy  breast  hath  later  nurst 

This  mightier  One. 


32         THEOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Glory  be  his  forever,  while  this  land 

Lives  and  is  free, 
As  with  controlling  breath  and  sovereign  hand 

He  bade  her  be. 

Earth  shows  to  heaven  the  names  by  thousands 

told 

That  crown  her  fame: 

But  highest  of  all  that  heaven  and  earth  behold 
Mazzini's  name. 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 


GENOA 

GENTLY,  as  roses  die,  the  day  declines ; 

On  the  charmed  air  there  is  a  hush  the  while; 

And  delicate  are  the  twilight-tints  that  smile 

Upon  the  summits  of  the  Apennines. 

The  moon  is  up ;  and  o'er  the  warm  wave  shines 

A  faery  bridge  of  light,  whose  beams  beguile 

The  fancy  to  some  far  and  fortunate  isle, 

Which  love  in  solitude  unlonely  shrines. 

The  blue  night  of  Italian  summer  glooms 

Around  us ;  over  the  crystalline  swell 

I  gaze  on  Genoa's  spires  and  palace-domes: 

City  of  cities,  the  superb,  farewell ! 

The  beautiful,  in  nature's  bloom,  is  thine; 

And  Art  hath  made  it  deathless  and  divine ! 

WILLIAM  HAMILTON  GIBSON. 


GENOA  83 

SONNET 

WRITTEN  IN  HOLY  WEEK  AT  GENOA 

I  WANDERED  through  Scoglietto's  far  retreat, 
The  oranges  on  each  o'erchanging  spray 
Burned  as  bright  lamps  of  gold  to  shame  the 

day; 

Some  startled  bird  with  fluttering  wings  and  fleet 
Made  snow  of  all  the  blossoms,  at  my  feet 
Like  silver  moons,  the  pale  narcissi  lay, 
And  the  curved  waves  that  streaked  the  great 

green  bay 

Laughed  i'  the  sun,  and  life  seemed  very  sweet. 
Outside  the  young  boy-priest  passed   singing 

clear : 

"Jesus  the  Son  of  Mary  has  been  slain, 
O  come  and  fill  his  sepulchre  with  flowers." 
Ah,  God!  Ah,  God!  those  dear  Hellenic  hours 
Had  drowned  all  memory  of  thy  bitter  pain, 

The  Cross,  the  Crown,  the  Soldiers,  and  the 
Spear. 

OSCAR  WILDE. 


PAVIA 


CHARLEMAGNE 

OLGER  the  Dane  and  Desiderio, 

King  of  the  Lombards,  on  a  lofty  tower 

Stood  gazing  northward  o'er  the  rolling  plains, 

League  after  league  of  harvests,  to  the  foot 

Of  the  snow-crested  Alps,  and  saw  approach 

A  mighty  army,  thronging  all  the  roads 

That  led  into  the  city.     And  the  King 

Said  unto  Olger,  who  had  passed  his  youth 

As  hostage  at  the  court  of  France,  and  knew 

The  Emperor's  form  and  face:    "Is  Charlemagne 

Among  that  host?"    And  Olger  answered:  "No." 

And  still  the  innumerable  multitude 
Flowed  onward  and  increased,  until  the  King 
Cried  in  amazement :    "Surely  Charlemagne 
Is  coming  in  the  midst  of  all  these  knights !" 
And  Olger  answered  slowly :  "No ;  not  yet ; 
He  will  not  come  so  soon."    Then  much  disturbed 
King  Desiderio  asked :  "What  shall  we  do, 
If  he  approach  with  a  still  greater  army  ?" 
And  Olger  answered :  "When  he  shall  appear, 
You  will  behold  what  manner  of  man  he  is ; 
But  what  will  then  befall  us  I  know  not." 

84 


PAVIA  85 

Then  came  the  guard  that  never  knew  repose, 
The  Paladins  of  France,  and  at  the  sight 
The  Lombard  King  overcome  with  terror  cried : 
"This  must  be  Charlemagne !"  and  as  before 
Did  Olger  answer:  "No;  not  yet,  not  yet." 

And  then  appeared  in  panoply  complete 

The  Bishops  and  the  Abbots  and  the  Priests 

Of  the  Imperial  chapel,  and  the  Counts ; 

And  Desiderio  could  no  more  endure 

The  light  of  day,  nor  yet  encounter  death, 

But  sobbed  aloud  and  said :  "Let  us  go  down 

And  hide  us  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth, 

Far  from  the  sight  and  anger  of  a  foe 

So  terrible  as  this !"  And  Olger  said : 

"When  you  behold  the  harvests  in  the  fields 

Shaking  with  fear,  the  Po  and  the  Ticino 

Lashing  the  city  walls  with  iron  waves, 

Then  may  you  know  that  Charlemagne  is  come." 

And  even  as  he  spake,  in  the  northwest, 

Lo!  there  uprose  a  black  and  threatening  cloud, 

Out  of  whose  bosom  flashed  the  light  of  arms 

Upon  the  people  pent  up  in  the  city ; 

A  light  more  terrible  than  any  darkness : 

And  Charlemagne  appeared ; — a  Man  of  Iron ! 

His  helmet  was  of  iron,  and  his  gloves 

Of  iron,  and  his  breastplate  and  his  greaves 

And  tassets  were  of  iron,  and  his  shield. 

In  his  left  hand  he  held  an  iron  spear, 


86         THBOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

In  his  right  hand  his  sword  invincible. 
The  horse  he  rode  on  had  the  strength  of  iron, 
And  color  of  iron.     All  who  went  before  him, 
Beside  him,  and  behind  him,  his  whole  host, 
Were  armed  with  iron2  and  their  hearts  within 

them 

Were  stronger  than  the  armor  that  they  wore. 
The  fields  and  all  the  roads  were  filled  with  iron, 
And  points  of  iron  glistened  in  the  sun 
And  shed  a  terror  through  the  city  streets. 
This  at  a  single  glance  Olger  the  Dane 
Saw  from  the  tower,  and  turning  to  the  King 
Exclaimed  in  haste,  "Behold,  this  is  the  man 
You  looked  for  with  such  eagerness !"  and  then 
Fell  as  one  dead  at  Desiderio's  feet. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


MODENA 


MODENA 

MODENA  stands  upon  a  spacious  plain, 

Hemmed  in  by  ridges  to  the  south  and  west, 

And  rugged  fragments  of  the  lofty  chain 
Or  Apennine,  whose  elevated  crest 

Sees  the  last  sunbeam  in  the  western  main, 
Glittering  and  fading  on  its  rippling  breast ; 

And  on  the  top  with  ice  eternal  crowned, 

The  sky  seems  bending  in  repose  profound. 

The  flowery  banks  where  beautifully  flow 
Panaro's  limpid  waters,  eastward  lie; 

In  front  Bologna,  on  the  left  the  Po, 

Where  Phaeton  tumbled  headlong  from  the  sky ; 

North,  Secchia's  rapid  stream  is  seen  to  go, 
With  changeful  course  in  whirling  eddies  by, 

Bursting  the  shores,  and  with  unfruitful  sand 

Sowing  the  meadows  and  adjacent  land. 

ALESSANDRO  TASSONI. 
Tr.  James  Atkinson. 


87 


88         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


GINEVRA 

IF  thou  shouldst  ever  come  by  choice  or  chance 
To  Modena,  where  still  religiously 
Among  her  ancient  trophies  is  preserved 
Bologna's  bucket  (in  its  chain  it  hangs 
Within  that  reverend  tower,  the  GuirlandineV 
Stop  at  a  palace  near  the  Reggio  Gate, 
Dwelt  in  of  old  by  one  of  the  Orsini. 
Its  noble  gardens,  terrace  above  terrace, 
And  rich  in  fountains,  statues,  cypresses, 
Will  long  detain  thee ;  through  their  arched  walks. 
Dim  at  noonday,  discovering  many  a  glimpse 
Of  knights  and  dames,  such  as  in  old  romance, 
And  lovers,  such  as  in  heroic  song, 
Perhaps  the  two,  for  groves  were  their  delight, 
That  in  the  spring-time,  as  alone  they  sat, 
Venturing  together  on  a  tale  of  love, 
Read  only  part  that  day.     A  summer  sun 
Sets  ere  one  half  is  seen ;  but,  ere  thou  go, 
Enter  the  house, — prithee,  forget  it  not, — 
And  look  awhile  upon  a  picture  there. 
*T  is  of  a  lady  in  her  earliest  youth, 
The  very  last  of  that  illustrious  race, 
Done  by  Zampieri, — but  by  whom  I  care  not. 
He  who  observes  it,  ere  he  passes  on, 
Gazes  his  fill,  and  comes  and  comes  again? 
That  he  may  call  it  up,  when  far  away. 


She  sits,  inclining  forward  as  to  speak, 
Her  lips  half  open,  and  her  finger  up, 
As  though  she  said,  "Beware!"    Her  vest  of  gold 
'Broidered  with  flowers,  and  clasped  from  head  to 

foot, 

An  emerald-stone  in  every  golden  clasp ; 
And  on  her  brow,  fairer  than  alabaster, 
A  coronet  of  pearls.     But  then  her  face, 
So  lovely,  yet  so  arch,  so  full  of  mirth, 
The  overflowings  of  an  innocent  heart, — 
It  haunts  me  still,  though  many  a  year  has  fled, 
Like  some  wild  melody! 

Alone  it  hangs 

Over  a  mouldering  heirloom,  its  companion, 
An  oaken  chest,  half  eaten  by  the  worm, 
But  richly  carved  by  Antony  of  Trent 
With  Scripture  stories  from  the  life  of  Christ ; 
A  chest  that  came  from  Venice,  and  had  held 
The  ducal  robes  of  some  old  ancestor. 
That  by  the  way, — it  may  be- true  or  false, — 

She  was  an  only  child;  from  infancy 
The  joy,  the  pride,  of  an  indulgent  sire. 
Her  mother  dying  of  the  gift  she  gave, 
That  precious  gift,  what  else  remained  to  him? 
The  young  Ginevra  was  his  all  in  life, 
Still  as  she  grew,  forever  in  his  sight; 
And  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a  bride, 
Marrying  an  only  son,  Francesco  Doria, 


90         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Her  playmate  from  her  birth,  and  her  first  love. 

Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal  dress, 
She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gayety, 
Her  pranks  the  favorite  theme  of  every  tongue. 
But  now  the  day  was  come,  the  day,  the  hour; 
Now,  frowning,  smiling,  for  the  hundredth  time, 
The  nurse,  that  ancient  lady,  preached  decorum ; 
And,  in  the  lustre  of  her  youth,  she  gave 
Her  hand,  withfher  heart  in  it,  to  Francesco. 
Great  was  the  joy;  but  at  the  bridal  feast, 
When  all  sat  down,  the  bride  was  wanting  there. 
Nor  was  she  to  be  found!     Her  father  cried, 
"  'Tis  but  to  make  a  trial  of  our  love !" 
And  filled  his  glass  to  ah1 ;  but  his  hand  shook, 
And  soon  from  guest  to  guest  the  panic  spread. 
'T  was  but  that  instant  she  left  Francesco, 
Laughing  and  looking  back,  and  flying  still, 
Her  ivory-tooth  imprinted  on  his  finger. 
But  now,  alas !  she  was  not  to  be  found ; 
Nor  from  that  hour  could  anything  be  guessed 
But  that  she  was  not !    Weary  of  his  lif e, 
Francesco  flew  to  Venice,  and  forthwith 
Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turk. 
Orsini  lived;  and  long  mightst  thou  have  seen. 
An  old  man  wandering  as  in  quest  of  something, 
Something  he  could  not  find, — he  knew  not  what. 
When  he  was  gone,  the  house  remained  awhile 
Silent  and  tenantless, — then  went  to  strangers. 

Full  fifty  years  were  past,  and  all  forgot, 


MODENA  91 

When  on  an  idle  day,  a  day  of  search 

Mid  the  old  lumber  in  the  gallery, 

That  mouldering  chest  was  noticed ;  and 't  was 

said 

By  one  as  young,  as  thoughtless  as  Ginevra, 
"Why  not  remove  it  from  its  lurking-place?" 
'T  was  done  as  soon  as  said ;  but  on  the  way 
It  burst,  it  fell ;  and  lo,  a  skeleton, 
Writh  here  and  there  a  pearl,  an  emerald-stone, 
A  golden  clasp,  clasping  a  shred  of  gold ! 
All  else  had  perished, — save  a  nuptial  ring, 
And  a  small  seal,  her  mother's  legacy, 
Engraven  with  a  name,  the  name  of  both, 
"Ginevra."    There  then  had  she  found  a  grave ! 
Within  that  chest  had  she  concealed  herself, 
Fluttering  with  joy  the  happiest  of  the  happy ; 
When  a  spring-lock  that  lay  in  ambush  there, 
Fastened  her  down  forever ! 

SAMUEL  ROGERS. 


BOLOGNA 


IN  THE  PIAZZA  OF  SAN  PETRONIO 

DARK  in  the  winter's  crystal  air  arise 
Bologna's  turrets,  and  above  them  laughs 
The  mountain-slope  all  whitened  by  the  snows. 

It  is  that  mellowest  hour  when  the  sun 

His  dying  salutation  on  the  towers 

And,  Saint  Petronius,  on  thy  temple  sheds, — 

Towers  whose  battlements  the  broad-spread  wings 
Of  many  passing  centuries  have  grazed, 
And  the  grave  temple's  solitary  peak. 

The  adamantine  sky  is  gleaming  cold 
In  its  refulgence,  and  the  air  is  drawn 
O'er  the  piazza  like  a  silver  veil, 

That  lightly  brushes  with  caressing  touch 

The  threatening  piles,  whose  grim  walls   gather 

round, 
Raised  by  our  fathers'  mail-encircled  arms. 

Still  lingering  on  the  mountain  heights,  the  sun 
Looks  o'er  the  scene;  and  languidly  his  smile 
Falls  with  suffusing  tint  of  violet 

92 


BOLOGNA  93 

On  the  grey  building  stones  and  on  the  dark 
Vermilion  brick,  and  seems  to  waken  there 
The  living  soul  of  vanished  centuries ; 

And  wakens  in  the  rigid  winter  air 

A  melancholy  yearning  for  the  glow 

Of  spring-times  past,  of  warm  and  festal  eves, 

When  here  in  the  piazza  used  to  dance 
The  beauteous  women,  and  in  triumph  home 
Returned  the  Consuls  with  their  captive  kings. 

This  in  her  flight  the  Muse  is  laughing  back 
Upon  the  verse  in  which  vain  longing  throbs 
For  all  the  antique  beauty  that  is  gone. 

GIOSUE  CARDUCCI. 
Tr.  M.  W.  Arms. 


TUSCANY 


IN  TUSCANY 

DOST  thou  remember,  friend  of  vanished  days, 
How,  in  the  golden  land  of  love  and  song, 
We  met  in  April  in  the  crowded  ways 
Of  that  fair  city  where  the  soul  is  strong, 
Ay!  strong  as  fate,  for  good  or  evil  praise? 
And  how  the  lord  whom  all  the  world  obeys, 
The  lord  of  light  to  whom  the  stars  belong, 
Illumed    the    track    that    led    thee    through    the 

throng  ? 

Dost  thou  remember,  in  the  wooded  dale, 
Beyond  the  town  of  Dante  the  Divine, 
How  all  the  air  was  flooded  as  with  wine? 
And  how  the  lark,  to  drown  the  nightingale, 
Pealed  out  sweet  notes?     I  live  to  tell  the  tale. 
But  thou  ?     Oblivion  signs  thee  with  a  sign ! 

EEIC  MACKAY. 


TUSCAN  HILLS 

MY  Friend  and  I,  we  climbed  together 
Sweet-scented  hill-sides  covered  over 

With  clusters  of  the  lilac  heather ; 

Around  us  was  the  fair  Spring  weather, 
She  was  my  friend,  I  was  her  lover. 
94 


TUSCANY  95 

Above  us  was  that  perfect  heaven 

One  only  sees  in  Tuscany. 
Below  us  was  the  valley,  riven 
With  budding  vineyards  green  and  even, 

Far-stretching  like  a  Summer  sea. 

She  heard  sweet  music  from  the  thrushes, 

I,  from  her  voice,  that  softer  grew 
When  swift  the  birds  sprang  from  the  bushes, 
And  in  those  sudden,  tender  hushes 

We  only  talked  as  friends  might  do. 

O  scented  hills  we  climbed  together! 

O  blue,  far  sky  that  bent  above  her ! 
She  never  will  forget  that  heather, 
That  Tuscan  day,  that  soft  Spring  weather, 

Yet  me  she  has  forgot — her  lover. 

CORA  FABBRI. 


FLORENCE 


FLORENCE 

THE  brightness  of  the  world,  O  thou  once  free, 
And  always  fair,  rare  land  of  courtesy! 
O  Florence !  with  the  Tuscan  fields  and  hills, 
And  famous  Arno,  fed  with  all  their  rills ; 
Thou  brightest  star  of  star-bright  Italy! 
Rich,  ornate,  populous,  all  treasures  thine, 
The  golden  corn,  the  olive,  and  the  vine. 
Fair  cities,  gallant  mansions,  castles  old, 
And  forests,  where  beside  his  leafy  hold 
The  sullen  boar  hath  heard  the  distant  horn, 
And  whets  his  tusks  against  the  gnarled  thorn ; 
Palladian  palace  with  its  storied  halls; 
Fountains,  where  Love  lies  listening  to  their  falls ; 
Gardens,  where  flings  the  bridge  its  airy  span, 
And  Nature  makes  her  happy  home  with  man ; 
Where  many  a  gorgeous  flower  is  duly  fed 
With  its  own  rill,  on  its  own  spangled  bed, 
And  wreathes  the  marble  urn,  or  leans  its  head, 
A  mimic  mourner,  that  with  veil  withdrawn 
Weeps  liquid  gems,  the  presents  of  the  dawn; 
Thine  all  delights,  and  every  muse  is  thine ; 
And  more  than  all,  the  embrace  and  intertwine 

96 


FLORENCE  97 

Of  all  with  all  in  gay  and  twinkling  dance ! 
Mid  gods  of  Greece  and  warriors  of  romance, 
See !  Boccace  sits,  unfolding  on  his  knees 
The  new-found  roll  of  old  Maeonides ; 
But  from  his  mantle's  fold,  and  near  the  heart, 
Peers  Ovid's  holy  book  of  Love's  sweet  smart ! 
SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


FOR  AN  EPITAPH  AT  FIESOLE 

Lo !  WHERE  the  four  mimosas  blend  their  shade 
In  calm  repose  at  last  is  Landor  laid ; 
For  ere  he  slept  he  saw  them  planted  here 
By  her  his  soul  had  ever  held  most  dear, 
And  he  had  liv'd  enough  when  he  had  dried  her 
tear. 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 


THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST 

THERE'S  a  palace  in  Florence,  the  world  knows 

well, 

And  a  statue  watches  it  from  the  square, 
And  this  story  of  both  do  the  townsmen  tell. 


98         THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Ages  ago,  a  lady  there, 

At  the  furthest  window  facing  the  east, 

Asked,  "Who  rides  by  with  the  royal  air?" 

The  bridesmaids'  prattle  around  her  ceased: 

She  leaned  forth,  one  on  either  hand: 

They  saw  how  the  blush  of  the  bride  increased. 

They  felt  by  its  beats  her  heart  expand, 
As  one  at  each  ear,  and  both  in  a  breath, 
Whispered,  "The  Great-Duke  Ferdinand." 

That  selfsame  instant,  underneath, 
The  Duke  rode  past  in  his  idle  way, 
Empty  and  fine  like  a  swordless  sheath. 

Gay  he  rode,  with  a  friend  as  gay, 

Till  he  threw  his  head  back,— "Who  is  she?" 

"A  bride  the  Riccardi  brings  home  to-day." 

Hair  in  heaps  laid  heavily 

Over  a  pale  brow  spirit-pure, — 

Carved  like  the  heart  of  the  coal-black  tree, 

Crisped  like  a  war-steed's  encolure, — 
Which  vainly  sought  to  dissemble  her  eyes 
Of  the  blackest  black  our  eyes  endure. 

And  lo,  a  blade  for  a  knight's  emprise 
Filled  the  fine  empty  sheath  of  a  man, — 
The  Duke  grew  straightway  brave  and  wise. 


FLORENCE  99 

He  looked  at  her,  as  a  lover  can ; 

She  looked  at  him,  as  one  who  awakes, — 

The  past  was  a  sleep,  and  her  life  began. 

As  love  so  ordered  for  both  their  sakes, 

A  feast  was  held  that  selfsame  night 

In  the  pile  which  the  mighty  shadow  makes. 

(For  Via  Larga  is  three-parts  light, 

But  the  palace  overshadows  one, 

Because  of  a  crime  which  may  God  requite! 

To  Florence  and  God  the  wrong  was  done, 
Through  the  first  republic's  murder  there 
By  Cosimo  and  his  cursed  son.) 

The  Duke  (with  the  statue's  face  in  the  square) 

Turned  in  the  midst  of  his  multitude 

At  the  bright  approach  of  the  bridal  pair. 

Face  to  face  the  lovers  stood 
A  single  minute  and  no  more, 
While  the  bridegroom  bent  as  a  man  subdued, — 

Bowed  till  his  bonnet  brushed  the  floor, — 
For  the  Duke  on  the  lady  a  kiss  conferred, 
As  the  courtly  custom  was  of  yore. 

Li  a  minute  can  lovers  exchange  a  word  ? 
If  a  word  did  pass,  which  I  do  not  think, 
Only  one  out  of  the  thousand  heard. 


100       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

That  was  the  bridegroom.     At  day's  brink 
He  and  his  bride  were  alone  at  last 
In  a  bedchamber  by  a  taper's  blink. 

Calmly  he  said  that  her  lot  was  cast, 

That  the  door  she  had  passed  was  shut  on  her 

Till  the  final  cataf  alk  repassed. 

The  world,  meanwhile,  its  noise  and  stir, 
Through  a  certain  window  facing  east 
She  might  watch  like  a  convent's  chronicler. 

Since  passing  the  door  might  lead  to  a  feast, 
And  a  feast  might  lead  to  so  much  beside, 
He,  of  many  evils,  chose  the  least. 

#  #  # 

Meanwhile,  worse  fates  than  a  lover's  fate 
Who  daily  may  ride  and  lean  and  look 
Where  his  lady  watches  behind  the  grate! 

And  she — she  watched  the  square  like  a  book 
Holding  one  picture,  and  only  one, 
Which  daily  to  find  she  undertook. 

When  the  picture  was  reached  the  book  was  done, 
And  she  turned  from  it  all  night  to  scheme 
Of  tearing  it  out  for  herself  next  sun. 

Weeks  grew  months,  years, — gleam  by  gleam 
The  glory  dropped  from  youth  and  love, 
And  both  perceived  they  had  dreamed  a  dream, 


FLORENCE 

Which  hovered  as  dreams  do,  still  above, 
But  who  can  take  a  dream  for  truth? 
O,  hide  our  eyes  from  the  next  remove ! 

One  day,  as  the  lady  saw  her  youth 
Depart,  and  the  silver  thread  that  streaked 
Her  hair,  and,  worn  by  the  serpent's  tooth, 

The  brow  so  puckered,  the  chin  so  peaked, 
And  wondered  who  the  woman  was, 
So  hollow-eyed  and  haggard-cheeked, 

Fronting  her  silent  in  the  glass, — 
'"'Summon  here,"  she  suddenly  said, 
"Before  the  rest  of  my  old  self  pass, 

"Him,  the  carver,  a  hand  to  aid, 

Who  moulds  the  clay  no  love  will  change, 

And  fixes  a  beauty  never  to  fade. 

"Let  Robbia's  craft  so  apt  and  strange 
Arrest  the  remains  of  young  and  fair, 
And  rivet  them  while  the  seasons  range. 

"Make  me  a  face  on  the  window  there 
Waiting  as  ever,  mute  the  while, 
My  love  to  pass  below  in  the  square !" 

#  *  # 

But  long  ere  Robbia's  cornice,  fine 

With  flowers  and  fruits  which  leaves  enlace, 

Was  set  where  now  is  the  empty  shrine, 


ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

(With,  leaning  out  of  a  bright  blue  space, 
As  a  ghost  might  from  a  chink  of  sky, 
The  passionate  pale  lady's  face, 

Eying  ever  with  earnest  eye 

And  quick-turned  neck  at  its  breathless  stretch, 

Some  one  who  ever  passes  by), 

The  Duke  sighed  like  the  simplest  wretch 

In  Florence,  "So  my  dream  escapes ! 

Will  its  record  stay?"     And  he  bade  them  fetch 

Some  subtle  fashioner  of  shapes, — 
"Can  the  soul,  the  will,  die  out  of  a  man 
Ere  his  body  find  the  grave  that  gapes? 

"John  of  Douay  shall  work  my  plan, 
Mould  me  on  horseback  here  aloft, 
Alive,  (the  subtle  artisan !) 

"In  the  very  square  I  cross  so  oft ! 

That  men  may  admire,  when  future  suns 

Shall  touch  the  eyes  to  a  purpose  soft, 

"While   the   mouth   and   the  brow   are   brave   in 

bronze, — 

Admire  and  say,  'When  he  was  alive, 
How  he  would  take  his  pleasure  once !' 

"And  it  shall  go  hard  but  I  contrive 
To  listen  meanwhile  and  laugh  in  my  tomb 
At  indolence  which  aspires  to  strive." 
*  #  * 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


FLORENCE  103 

SANTA  CROCE 

IN  Santa  Croce's  holy  precincts  lie 

Ashes  which  make  it  holier,  dust  which  is 

Even  in  itself  an  immortality, 

Though  they  were  nothing  save  the  past,  and 

this 

The  particle  of  those  sublimities 
Which  have  relapsed  to  chaos ; — here  repose 
Angelo's,  Alfieri's  bones,  and  his, 
The  starry  Galileo,  with  his  woes ; 
Here  Machiavelli's  earth  returned  to  whence  it 
rose. 

These  are  four  minds,  which,  like  the  elements, 
Might  furnish  forth  creation; — Italy! 
Time,  which  hath  wronged  thee  with  ten  thou- 
sand rents 

Of  thine  imperial  garment,  shall  deny, 
And  hath  denied,  to  every  other  sky, 
Spirits  which  soar  from  ruin ;  thy  decay 
Is  still  impregnate  with  divinity, 
Which  gilds  it  with  revivifying  ray ; 
Such  as  the  great  of  yore,  Canova  is  to-day. 

But  where  repose  the  all  Etruscan  three, — 
Dante,  and  Petrarch,  and,  scarce  less  than  they, 
The  Bard  of  Prose,  creative  spirit !  he 
Of  the  Hundred  Tales  of  love, — where  did  they 
lay 


104*       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Their  bones,  distinguished  from  our  common 
clay 

In  death  as  life?    Are  they  resolved  to  dust, 

And  have  their  country's  marbles  naught  to 
say? 

Could  not  her  quarries  furnish  forth  one  bust? 
Did  they  not  to  her  breast  their  filial  earth  in- 
trust? 

Ungrateful  Florence!  Dante  sleeps  afar, 
Like  Scipio,  buried  by  the  upbraiding  shore; 
Thy  factions,  in  their  worse  than  civil  war, 
Proscribed  the  bard  whose  name  f  orevermore 
Their  children's  children  would  in  vain  adore 
With  the  remorse  of  ages ;  and  the  crown 
Which    Petrarch's    laureate    brow    supremely 

wore, 

Upon  a  far  and  foreign  soil  had  grown, 
His  life,  his  fame,  his  grave,  though  rifled, — not 
thine  own. 

Boccaccio  to  his  parent  earth  bequeathed 
His  dust, — and  lies  it  not  her  Great  among, 
With  many  a  sweet  and  solemn  requiem  breathed 
O'er    him    who    formed    the    Tuscan's     siren 

tongue, — 

That  music  in  itself,  whose  sounds  are  song, 
The  poetry  of  speech?     No ;  even  his  tomb 
Uptorn,  must  bear  the  hyena  bigots'  wrong, 


FLORENCE  105 

No  more  amidst  the  meaner  dead  find  room, 
Nor  claim  a  passing  sigh,  because  it  told  for 
whom. 

And  Santa  Croce  wants  their  mighty  dust ; 
Yet  for  this  want  more  noted,  as  of  yore 
The  Cassar's  pageant,  shorn  of  Brutus'  bust, 
Did  but  of  Rome's  best  son  remind  her  more. 
Happier  Ravenna !  on  thy  hoary  shore, 
Fortress  of  falling  empire,  honoured  sleeps 
The  immortal  exile ; — Arqua,  too,  her  store 
Of  tuneful  relics  proudly  claims  and  keeps, 
While  Florence  vainly  begs  her  banished  dead,  and 
weeps.  LORD  BYRON. 


SANTA  MARIA  NOVELLA 

OR  ENTER,  in  your  Florence  wanderings, 

Santa  Maria  Novella  church.     You  pass 
The  left  stair,  where,  at  plague-time,  Macchiavel 

Saw  one  with  set  fair  face  as  in  a  glass, 
Dressed  out  against  the  fear  of  death  and  hell, 

Rustling  her  silks  in  pauses  of  the  mass, 
To  keep  the  thought  of  how  her  husband  fell, 

When   she  left  home,   stark  dead   across   her 

feet, — 
The  stair  leads  up  to  what  Orgagna  gave 

Of  Dante's  daemons ;  but  you,  passing  it, 
Ascend  the  right  stair  of  the  farther  nave, 


106       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

To  muse  in  a  small  chapel  scarcely  lit 
By  Cimabue's  Virgin.     Bright  and  brave, 

That  picture  was  accounted,  mark,  of  old ! 
A  king  stood  bare  before  its  sovran  grace ; 

A  reverent  people  shouted  to  behold 
The  picture,  not  the  king ;  and  even  the  place 

Containing  such  a  miracle,  grew  bold, 
Named  the  Glad  Borgo  from  that  beauteous  face, 

Which  thrilled  the  artist,  after  work,  to  think 
That  his  ideal  Mary-smile  should  stand 

So  very  near  him ! — he,  within  the  brink 
Of  all  that  glory,  let  in  by  his  hand 

With  too  divine  a  rashness !    Yet  none  shrink 
Who  gaze  here  now, — albeit  the  thing  is  planned 

Sublimely  in  the  thought's  simplicity. 
The  Virgin,  throned  in  empyreal  state, 

Minds  only  the  young  babe  upon  her  knee ; 
While,  each  side,  angels  bear  the  royal  weight, 

Prostrated  meekly,  smiling  tenderly 
Oblivion  of  their  wings !  the  Child  thereat 

Stretches  its  hand  like  God.     If  any  should, 
Because  of  some  stiff  draperies  and  loose  joints, 

Gaze  scorn  down  from  the  heights  of   Rafael- 
hood, 
On  Cimabue's  picture, — Heaven  anoints 

The  head  of  no  such  critic,  and  his  blood 
The  poet's  curse  strikes  full  on,  and  appoints 

To  ague  and  cold  spasms  forevermore. 
A  noble  picture !  worthy  of  the  shout 


FLORENCE  107 

Wherewith  along  the  streets  the  people  bore 
Its  cherub  faces,  which  the  sun  threw  out 

Until  they  stooped  and  entered  the  church  door ! 
ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


THE  OLD  BRIDGE  AT  FLORENCE 

TADDEO  GADDI  built  me.     I  am  old, 

Five  centuries  old.     I  plant  my  foot  of  stone 

Upon  the  Arno,  as  St.  Michael's  own 

Was  planted  on  the  dragon.     Fold  by  fold 

Beneath  me  as  it  struggles,  I  behold 

Its  glistening  scales.     Twice  hath  it  overthrown 

My  kindred  and  companions.     Me  alone 

It  moveth  not,  but  is  by  me  controlled. 

I  can  remember  when  the  Medici 

Were  driven  from  Florence;  longer  still  ago 

The  final  wars  of  Ghibelline  and  Guelf . 

Florence  adorns  me  with  her  jewelry; 

And  when  I  think  that  Michael  Angelo 

Hath  leaned  on  me,  I  glory  in  myself. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


THE  VENUS  DE  MEDICI 

BUT  ARNO  wins  us  to  the  fair  white  walls, 
Where  the  Etrurian  Athens  claims  and  keeps 
A  softer  feeling  for  her  fairy  halls. 


108       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Girt  by  her  theatre  of  hills,  she  reaps 
Her  corn  and  wine  and  oil,  and  Plenty  leaps 
To  laughing  life,  with  her  redundant  horn. 
Along  the  banks  where  smiling  Arno  sweeps 
Was  modern  luxury  of  commerce  born, 
And  buried  learning  rose,  redeemed  to  a  new  morn. 

There,  too,  the  Goddess  loves  in  stone,  and  fills 

The  air  around  with  beauty ;  we  inhale 

The  ambrosial  aspect,  which,  beheld,  instils 

Part  of  its  immortality;  the  veil 

Of  heaven  is  half  undrawn;  within  the  pale 

We  stand,  and  in  that  form  and  face  behold 

What  mind  can  make,  when  Nature's  self  would 

fail; 

And  to  the  fond  idolaters  of  old 
Envy  the  innate  flash  which  such  a  soul  could 

mould. 

We  gaze  and  turn  away,  and  know  not  where, 
Dazzled  and  drunk  with  beauty,  till  the  heart 
Reels  with  its  fulness ;  there,  forever  there, 
Chained  to  the  chariot  of  triumphal  art, 
We  stand  as  captives,  and  would  not  depart. 
Away!  there  need  no  words,  nor  terms  precise, 
The  paltry  jargon  of  the  marble  mart, 
Where  pedantry  gulls  folly, — we  have  eyes : 
Blood,  pulse,  and  breast  confirm  the  Dardan  Shep- 
herd's prize. 


FLOEENCE  109 

Appearedst  thou  not  to  Paris  in  this  guise? 
Or  to  more  deeply  blest  Anchises?  or, 
In  all  thy  perfect  goddess-ship,  when  lies 
Before  thee  thy  own  vanquished  lord  of  war? 
And  gazing  in  thy  face  as  toward  a  star, 
Laid  on  thy  lap,  his  eyes  to  thee  upturn, 
Feeding  on  thy  sweet  cheek!  while  thy  lips  are 
With  lava  kisses  melting  while  they  burn, 
Showered  on  his  eyelids,  brow,  and  mouth,  as  from 
an  urn ! 

Glowing,  and  circumfused  in  speechless  love, 

Their  full  divinity  inadequate 

That  feeling  to  express,  or  to  improve, 

The  gods  become  as  mortals,  and  man's  fate 

Has    moments    like    their    brightest;    but    the 

weight 

Of  earth  recoils  upon  us ; — let  it  go ! 
We  can  recall  such  visions,  and  create, 
From  what  has  been,  or  might  be,  things  which 

grow 

Into  thy  statue's  form,  and  look  like  gods  below. 

LOED  BYEON. 


GIOTTO'S  TOWER 

How  MANY  lives,  made  beautiful  and  sweet 
By  self-devotion  and  by  self-restraint, 
Whose  pleasure  is  to  run  without  complaint 
On  unknown  errands  of  the  Paraclete, 


110       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Wanting  the  reverence  of  unshodden  feet, 
Fail  of  the  nimbus  which  the  artists  paint 
Around  the  shining  forehead  of  the  saint, 
And  are  in  their  completeness  incomplete! 
In  the  old  Tuscan  town  stands  Giotto's  tower, 
The  lily  of  Florence  blossoming  in  stone, — 
A  vision,  a  delight,  and  a  desire, — 
The  builder's  perfect  and  centennial  flower, 
That  in  the  night  of  ages  bloomed  alone, 
But  wanting  still  the  glory  of  the  spire. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE 

THE  morn  when  first  it  thunders  in  March, 

The  eel  in  the  pond  gives  a  leap,  they  say. 
As  I  leaned  and  looked  over  the  aloed  arch 

Of  the  villa-gate,  this  warm  March  day, 
No  flash  snapt,  no  dumb  thunder  rolled 

In  the  valley  beneath,  where,  white  and  wide, 
Washed  by  the  morning's  water-gold, 

Florence  lay  out  on  the  mountain-side. 

River  and  bridge  and  street  and  square 
Lay  mine,  as  much  at  my  beck  and  call, 

Through  the  live  translucent  bath  of  air, 
As  the  sights  in  a  magic  crystal  ball. 

And  of  all  I  saw  and  of  all  I  praised, 


FLORENCE  111 

The  most  to  praise  and  the  best  to  see, 
Was  the  startling  bell-tower  Giotto  raised: 
But  why  did  it  more  than  startle  me? 

Giotto,  how,  with  that  soul  of  yours, 

Could  you  play  me  false  who  loved  you  so? 
Some  slights  if  a  certain  heart  endures 

It  feels,  I  would  have  your  fellows  know ! 
Faith,  I  perceive  not  why  I  should  care 

To  break  a  silence  that  suits  them  best, 
But  the  thing  grows  somewhat  hard  to  bear 

When  I  find  Giotto  join  the  rest. 

On  the  arch  where  olives  overhead 

Print  the  blue  sky  with  twig  and  leaf 
(That  sharp-curled  leaf  they  never  shed), 

'Twixt  the  aloes  I  used  to  lean  in  chief, 
And  mark  through  the  winter  afternoons, 

By  a  gift  God  grants  me  now  and  then, 
In  the  mild  decline  of  those  suns  like  moons, 

Who  walked  in  Florence,  besides  her  men. 

They  might  chirp  and  chaffer,  come  and  go 

For  pleasure  or  profit,  her  men  alive, — 
My  business  was  hardly  with  them,  I  trow, 

But  with  empty  cells  of  the  human  hive; 
With  the  chapter-room,  the  cloister-porch, 

The  church's  apsis,  aisle  or  nave, 
Its  crypt,  one  fingers  along  with  a  torch, — 

Its  face,  set  full  for  the  sun  to  shave. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Wherever  a  fresco  peels  and  drops, 

Wherever  an  outline  weakens  and  wanes 

Till  the  latest  life  in  the  painting  stops, 

Stands  one  whom  each  fainter  pulse-tick 
pains ! 

One,  wishful  each  scrap  should  clutch  its  brick, 
Each  tinge  not  wholly  escape  the  plaster, — 

A  lion  who  dies  of  an  ass's  kick, 

The  wronged  great  soul  of  an  ancient  master. 

For  O,  this  world  and  the  wrong  it  does ! 

They  are  safe  in  heaven  with  their  backs  to  it, 
The  Michaels  and  Raf aels  you  hum  and  buzz 

Round  the  works  of,  you  of  the  little  wit ; 
Do  their  eyes  contract  to  the  earth's  old  scope, 

Now  that  they  see  God  face  to  face, 
And  have  all  attained  to  be  poets,  I  hope? 

'T  is  their  holiday  now,  in  any  case. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


THE  STATUE  OF  LORENZO  DE    MEDICI 

MARK  me  how  still  I  am! — The  sound  of  feet 
Unnumbered  echoing  through  this  vaulted  hall, 
Placed  high  in  my  memorial  niche  and  seat, 
In  cold  and  marble  meditation  meet, 
Or  voices  harsh,  on  me  unheeded  fall, 
Among  proud  tombs  and  pomp  funereal 
Of  rich  sarcophagi  and  sculptured  wall, — 


FLORENCE  113 

In  death's  elaborate  elect  retreat. 

I  was  a  Prince, — this  monument  was  wrought 

That  I  in  honor  might  eternal  stand ; 

In  vain,  subdued  by  Buonarroti's  hand, 

The  conscious  stone  is  pregnant  with  his  thought ; 

He  to  this  brooding  rock  his  fame  devised, 

And  he,  not  I,  is  here  immortalized. 

JAMES  ERNEST  NESMITH. 


THE  DUOMO 

TWILIGHT  the  hour.    How  doubly  twilight  here, 
Where  early  blent  are  roof  and  architrave 
(As  in  a  mountain  hollowed  to  a  cave), 
And  ev'n  the  glance  of  noonday  is  austere ! 

Now,  what  reverberations  fill  the  ear, 

As  though  commingling  storm  and  torrent  gave 
Some  waste  place  speech,  or  prophet  message 

clave, 
For  the  first  time,  a  desert  vast  and  drear ! 

Source  of  the  sounds,  beyond  the  altar  high* — 
A  preaching  monk.    His  burden  he  repeats : 
"Gesu  e  Crist o!"     How  his  accents  thrill, 
As,  in  the  wild,  the  first  evangel  cry !     .     .     . 
And  still,  I  hear  them,  'midst  the  murmuring 

streets, 
In  twilight  Florence,  medieval  still. 

EDITH  MATILDA  THOMAS. 


114*       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

SAN  MINIATO 

SEE,  I  have  climbed  the  mountainside 
Up  to  this  holy  house  of  God, 
Where  once  that  Angel-Painter  trod 
Who  saw  the  heavens  opened  wide, 

And  throned  upon  the  crescent  moon 
The  Virginal  white  Queen  of  Grace, — 
Mary !    could  I  but  see  thy  face 
Death  could  not  come  at  all  too  soon. 

O  crowned  by  God  with  thorns  and  pain ! 
Mother  of  Christ!    O  mystic  wife! 
My  heart  is  weary  of  this  life 
And  over-sad  to  sing  again. 

O  crowned  by  God  with  love  and  flame ! 
O  crowned  by  Christ  the  Holy  One 
O  listen  ere  the  searching  sun 
Show  to  the  world  my  sin  and  shame. 

OSCAR  WILDE. 

IN  SAN  LORENZO 

Is  thine  hour  come  to  wake,  O  slumbering  Night? 
Hath  not  the  Dawn  a  message  in  thine  ear? 
Though  thou  be  stone  and  sleep,  yet  shalt  thou 

hear 

When  the  word  falls  from  heaven — Let  there  be 
light. 


FLORENCE  115 

Thou  knowest  we  would  not  do  thee  the  despite 

To  wake  thee  while  the  old  sorrow  and  shame 
were  near ; 

We  spake  not  loud  for  thy  sake,  and  for  fear 
Lest  thou  shouldst  lose  the  rest  that  was  thy  right, 
The  blessing  given  thee  that  was  thine  alone. 
The  happiness  to  sleep  and  to  be  stone: 

Nay,  we  kept  silence  of  thee  for  thy  sake 
Albeit  we  know  thee  alive,  and  left  with  thee 
The  great  good  gift  to  feel  not  nor  to  see ; 

But  will  not  yet  thine  Angel  bid  thee  wake? 
ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 


FROM  "LOVE  IN  ITALY" 

THE  air  was  heavy  with  the  scent  of  flowers 
When  from  the  height  of  Fiesole  we  gazed 
Where  Brunelleschi's  dome  and  the  two  towers 
Shone  in  the  sunset, — like  three  fingers  raised 
To  point  a  heaven  where  Art  and  Worship  blend. 
A  last  long  spire  of  flame  shot  through  the  sky 
And  left  thee  sad:    "The  glory  of  the  end, — 
How  sweet  to  die  in  Florence !"  was  thy  sigh. 
But  I  replied,  "Rather,  the  golden  bars 
Of  day  are  burst :  the  world  doth  onward  move 
To  larger  life  beneath  the  infinite  stars, 
The  calm  of  night  comes  winged  on  the  breath 
Of  roses,  dearest  heart.     When  Youth  and  Love 
And   Florence   meet,    can    there   be   thought    of 
Death?"  JOHN  HALL  INGHAM. 


ARCETRI 


THE  TOMB  OF  GALILEO 

I  HAVE  grown  weary  of  the  idle  show 

Of  pompous  Castle  and  pretentious  Court, 

Of  Churches — dingy  wrecks  of  long  ago — 
Of  swords  and  guns  in  arsenal  or  fort. 

I  sicken  at  the  sight  of  tarnished  toys, 
Of  dead-and-buried  mistresses  of  kings, 

Of  spears  of  warring  barons — bearded  boys 
Who  fumed  and  fought  for  cheap  and  childish 
things. 

I  care  not  for  the  saint  of  mythic  fame, 
Who  wore  brass  haloes  on  an  empty  head ; 

The  so-called  patriot,  who  in  Freedom's  name, 
Heaped  neighboring  lands  with  hillocks  of  the 
dead. 

But  here  lies  one,  the  brave,  the  great,  the  good, 
Worth  all  the  kings  and  queens  the  whole  world 

round ; — 

Make  bare  your  head  in  reverential  mood, 
For  here  indeed  you  tread  on  Holy  Ground. 
116 


AECETBI  117 

His  life,  from  selfish  earthly  motives  purged, 
Was  consecrated  unto  you  and  me ; 

He  took  the  blow,  that  we  might  go  unscourged, 
And  wore  the  chains,  that  we  might  wander  free. 

He  found  the  long-lost  Pleiad,  Saturn's  band, 
And  brought  Jove's    moons  to  yonder  Tuscan 

hill;  — 
The  second  Joshua,  at  whose  command 

The  heavens  ceased  turning  and  the  sun  stood 
still. 

The  moon  in  starry-frosted  skies  of  night 
Shall  write  in  splendor  Galileo's  name, 

And  sun  to  sun  at  noon  and  morning  light 
Shall  blazon  heaven  with  Galileo's  fame. 

WALTER  MALONE. 


THE  RIVER  ARNO 


BY  THE  ARNO 

THE  oleander  on  the  wall 

Grows  crimson  in  the  dawning  night, 
Though  the  gay  shadows  of  the  light 

Lie  yet  on  Florence  like  a  pall. 

The  dew  is  bright  upon  the  hill, 

And  bright  the  blossoms  overhead, 
But  ah !    the  grasshoppers  have  fled, 

The  little  Attic  song  is  still. 

Only  the  leaves  are  gently  stirred 
By  the  soft  breathing  of  the  gale, 
And  in  the  almost  scented  vale 

The  lonely  nightingale  is  heard. 

The  day  will  make  thee  silent  soon, 
O  nightingale  sing  on  for  love! 
While  yet  upon  the  shadowy  grove 

Splinter  the  arrows  of  the  moon, 
118 


THE  RIVER  AENO  119 

Before  across  the  silent  lawn 

In  sea-green  mist  the  morning  steals, 
And  to  love's  frightened  eyes  reveals 

The  long  white  fingers  of  the  dawn 

Fast  climbing  up  the  eastern  sky 

To  grasp  and  slay  the  shuddering  night. 
All  careless  of  my  heart's  delight, 

Or  if  the  nightingale  should  die. 

OSCAE  WILDE. 


VALLOMBROSA 


VALLOMBROSA 

THICK  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strow  the  brooks 
In  Vallombrosa,  where  the  Etrurian  shades, 
High  overarched,  embower.     .     .     . 

JOHN  MILTON. 


VALLOMBROSA 

AND  Vallombrosa,  we  went  to  see 

Last  June,  beloved  companion, — where  sublime 
The  mountains  live  in  holy  families, 

And  the  slow  pine-woods  ever  climb  and  climb 
Half  up  their  breasts ;  just  stagger  as  they  seize 
Some  gray  crag, — drop  back  with  it  many  a 

time, 
And  straggle  blindly  down  the  precipice ! 

The  Vallombrosan  brooks  were  strewn  as  thick 
That    June-day,    knee-deep,    with    dead    beechen 

leaves, 

As  Milton  saw  them  ere  his  heart  grew  sick, 
And  his  eyes  blind.    I  think  the  monks  and  beeves 
Are  all  the  same  too :  scarce  they  have  changed 
the  wick 

120 


VALLOMBROSA 

On  good  St.  Gualbert's  altar,  which  receives 

The  convent's  pilgrims;  and  the  pool  in  front 
Wherein  the  hill-stream  trout  are  cast,  to  wait 

The  beatific  vision,  and  the  grunt 
Used  at  refectory,  keeps  its  weedy  state, 

To  baffle  saintly  abbots,  who  would  count 
The  fish  across  their  breviary,  nor  'bate 

The  measure  of  their  steps.    O  waterfalls 
And  forests!  sound  and  silence!  mountains  bare, 

That  leap  up,  peak  by  peak,  and  catch  the  palls 
Of  purple  and  silver  mist,  to  rend  and  share 

With  one  another,  at  electric  calls 
Of  life  in  the  sunbeams, — till  we  cannot  dare 

Fix  your  shapes,  learn  your  number!  we  must 

think 
Your  beauty  and  your  glory  helped  to  fill 

The  cup  of  Milton's  soul  so  to  the  brink, 
That  he  no  more  was  thirsty  when  God's  will 

Had  shattered  to  his  sense  the  last  chain-link 
By  which  he  drew  from  Nature's  visible 

The  fresh  well-water.     Satisfied  by  this, 
He  sang  of  Adam's  Paradise  and  smiled, 

Remembering  Vallombrosa.    Therefore  is 
The  place  divine  to  English  man  and  child ; — 

We  all  love  Italy. 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


VALLOMBROSA 

English  wanderer,  where  Etruria  sings  to  thee 

Songs  of  mountain  and  of  forest  fair, 

Each    clear    stream   with   its   beech-leaf   burden 

brings  to  thee 
Days  long  flown,  wherein  Milton  wandered  there. 

Scenes  youth  lit  for  his  ardour  and  his  purity 
Age  raised  up  when  his  outer  eye  was  dim: 
Vallombrosa,  thy  name  through  all  futurity 
Blends  sweet  tones  with  a  sweeter  tone  from  him. 

ERNEST  MYERS. 


LA  VERNA 


THE  CONVENT  OF  LA  VERNA 

THERE  is  a  lofty  spot 
Visible  amongst  the  mountains  Apennine, 
Where  once  a  hermit  dwelt,  not  yet  forgot 
He  or  his  famous  miracles  divine ; 
And  there  the  convent  of  Laverna  stands 
In  solitude,  built  up  by  saintly  hands, 
And  deemed  a  wonder  in  the  elder  time. 
Chasms  of  the  early  world  are  yawning  there, 
And  rocks  are  seen,  craggy  and  vast  and  bare, 
And  many  a  dizzy  precipice  sublime, 
And  caverns  dark  as  death,  where  the  wild  air 
Rushes  from  all  the  quarters  of  the  sky : 
Above,  in  all  his  old  regality, 
The  monarch  eagle  sits  upon  his  throne, 
Or  floats  upon  the  desert  winds,  alone. 
There,  belted  round  and  round  by  forests  drear, 
Black  pine,  and  giant  beech,  and  oaks  that  rear 
Their  brown  diminished  heads  like  shrubs  between, 
And  guarded  by  a  river  that  is  seen 
Flashing  and  wandering  through  the  dell  below, 
Laverna  stands. 

BRYAN  WALLER  PROCTER. 
123 


LASTRA 

LASTRA  A  SIGNA 

SHE  is  old !  she  is  old,  our  Lastra ! 

Old  with  thousands  of  years ; 
Yet  her  bold,  brave  gates  stand  up  to-day 

As  in  years  agone,  when  her  Tuscan  spears 
From  the  sunny  hill-top  drove  at  bay 
Foe  after  foe,  in  reddening  lines, 
Over  the  crest  of  the  Apennines. 

She  is  old !  she  is  old,  our  Lastra ! 

Her  noble  walls  are  rent; 
Yet  they  stand  to-day  on  the  great  highway, 

With  the  ruined  battlement, 
And  the  beacon  tower,  dark  and  gray: 
She  sees,  like  a  dream,  the  Arno  flow 
By  beautiful  Florence,  far  below. 

She  is  old !  she  is  old,  our  Lastra ! 

Yet  Ferruchio  held  her  dear ; 
He  gave  her  his  heart,  his  sword,  his  life, 

Yet  she  wasted  never  a  tear, 
With  head  unbowed  in  the  bitter  strife, 
As  on,  through  her  gateway,  the  hosts  of  France 
Passed  at  the  traitor  Baldini's  glance. 

They  stormed  at  her  walls,  our  Lastra ! 
They  pierced  her  with  fire  and  steel ; 
124 


LASTRA 

Orange  came  down  from  the  hills  of  Spain, — 

He  trampled  her  turf  with  his  iron  heel, 
Pillaged,  and  slew  to  her  hurt  and  pain, 
Till  she  fought  no  more ;  her  banners  were  rent, 
And  the  warder  gone  from  her  battlement. 

But  they  left  her  the  gray  old  mountains, 

And  the  green  of  her  olive-fields ; 
The  blessed  cross  and  the  holy  shrine, 

And  her  marvellous  carven  shields, 
Painted  in  colors  rare  and  fine, 
On  the  beautiful  gateway,  her  crown  and  pride, 
Dear  to  the  hearts,  where  Amalfi  died. 

On  the  stones  of  her  mighty  watch-tower 

Women  spin  in  the  sun ; 
Pilgrims  tread  on  her  broad  highway ; 

Her  days  of  battle  are  done. 
Soft  breezes  blow  o'er  the  scented  hay, 
And  scarlet  poppies  bloom  large  and  sweet, 
By  the  blowing  barley  and  fields  of  wheat. 

She  is  older,  our  pride,  our  Lastra, 
Than  the  tombs  of  Etruscan  kings ; 

She  is  wise  with  the  wisdom  of  sages, — 
For  her  living  she  smiles  and  sings, 

As  she  looks  to  the  coming  ages ; 

And  her  dead,  they  whisper,  "Waste  no  tear, 

We  only  sleep, — we  are  waiting  here !" 

SARAH  D.  CLARKE. 


PISA 


IN  THE  PINE  FOREST  OF  THE  CASCINE 

WE  wandered  to  the  Pine  Forest 

That  skirts  the  Ocean's  foam, 
The  lightest  wind  was  in  its  nest, 

The  tempest  in  its  home. 
The  whispering  waves  were  half  asleep, 

The  clouds  were  gone  to  play, 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep 

The  smile  of  Heaven  lay ; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  hour  were  one 

Sent  from  beyond  the  skies, 
Which  scattered  from  above  the  sun 

A  light  of  Paradise. 

We  paused  amid  the  pines  that  stood 

The  giants  of  the  waste, 
Tortured  by  storms  to  shapes  as  rude 

As  serpents  interlaced, 
And  soothed  by  every  azure  breath 

That  under  heaven  is  blown, 
To  harmonies  and  hues  beneath, 

As  tender  as  its  own ; 
126 


PISA  127 

Now  all  the  tree-tops  lay  asleep, 

Like  green  waves  on  the  sea. 
As  still  as  in  the  silent  deep 

The  ocean  woods  may  be. 

How  calm  it  was ! — the  silence  there 

By  such  a  chain  was  bound, 
That  even  the  busy  woodpecker 

Made  stiller  by  her  sound 
The  inviolable  quietness ; 

The  breath  of  peace  we  drew 
With  its  soft  motion  made  not  less 

The  calm  that  round  us  grew. 
There  seemed  from  the  remotest  seat 

Of  the  wide  mountain  waste, 
To  the  soft  flower  beneath  our  feet, 

A  magic  circle  traced; 
A  spirit  interfused  around 

A  thrilling  silent  life, 
To  momentary  peace  it  bound 

Our  mortal  nature's  strife; — 
And  still  I  felt  the  centre  of 

The  magic  circle  there 
Was  one  fair  form  that  filled  with  love 

The  lifeless  atmosphere. 

We  paused  beside  the  pools  that  lie 

Under  the  forest  bough, 
Each  seemed  as  't  were  a  little  sky 

Gulfed  in  a  world  below ; 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


A  firmament  of  purple  light, 

Which  in  the  dark  earth  lay, 
More  boundless  than  the  depth  of  night, 

And  purer  than  the  day; 
In  which  the  lovely  forests  grew, 

As  in  the  upper  air, 
More  perfect  both  in  shape  and  hue 

Than  any  spreading  there. 
There  lay  the  glade  and  neighbouring  lawn, 

And  through  the  dark  green  wood 
The  white  sun  twinkling  like  the  dawn 

Out  of  speckled  cloud. 
Sweet  views,  which  in  our  world  above 

Can  never  well  be  seen, 
Were  imaged  by  the  water's  love 

Of  that  fair  forest  green. 
And  all  was  interfused  beneath 

With  an  Elysian  glow, 
An  atmosphere  without  a  breath, 

A  softer  day  below. 
Like  one  beloved  the  scene  had  lent 

To  the  dark  water's  breast 
Its  every  leaf  and  lineament 

With  more  than  truth  exprest, 
Until  an  envious  wind  crept  by, 

Like  an  unwelcome  thought, 
Which  from  the  mind's  too  faithful  eye 

Blots  one  dear  image  out. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


PISA  129 

THE  CAMP  SANTO  AT  PISA 


THERE    needs    not    choral    song,    nor    organ's 

pealing : — 

This  mighty  cloister  of  itself  inspires 
Thoughts    breathed    like    hymns    from    spiritual 

choirs ; 

While  shades  and  lights,  in  soft  succession  stealing 
Along  it  creep,  now  veiling,  now  revealing 
Strange  forms,  here  traced  by  painting's  earliest 

sires, — 

Angels  with  palms ;  and  purgatorial  fires ; 
And  saints  caught  up,  and  demons  round  them 

reeling. 

Love,  long  remembering  those  she  could  not  save, 
Here  hung  the  cradle  of  Italian  Art : 
Faith  rocked  it:  like  a  hermit  child  went  forth 
From  hence  that  power  which  beautified  the  earth. 
She  perished  when  the  world  had  lured  her  heart 
From  her  true  friends,  Religion  and  the  Grave. 

II 

Lament  not  thou:  the  cold  winds,  as  they  pass 
Through  the  ribbed  fretwork  with  low  sigh  or 

moan, 

Lament  enough :  let  them  lament  alone, 
Counting  the  sere  leaves  of  the  innumerous  grass 


130       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

With  thin,  soft  sound  like  one  prolonged, — alas! 
Spread  thou  thy  hands  on  sun-touched  vase,  or 

stone 

That  yet  retains  the  warmth  of  sunshine  gone, 
And  drink  warm  solace  from  the  ponderous  mass. 
Gaze  not  around  thee.    Monumental  marbles, 
Time-clouded  frescos,  mouldering  year  by  year, 
Dim  cells  in  which  all  day  the  night-bird  warbles, 
These  things  are  sorrowful  elsewhere,  not  here: 
A  mightier  Power  than  Art's  hath  here  her  shrine : 
Stranger !  thou  tread'st  the  soil  of  Palestine ! 

AUBREY  DE  VERB. 


CAMPANILE  DI  PISA 

SNOW  was  glistening  on  the  mountains,  but  the  air 

was  that  of  June ; 
Leaves  were  falling,  but  the  runnels  playing  still 

their  summer  tune, 
And  the  dial's  lazy  shadow  hovered  nigh  the  brink 

of  noon. 
On  the  benches  in  the  market  rows  of  languid 

idlers  lay, 
When  to  Pisa's  nodding  belfry,  with  a  friend,  I 

took  my  way. 


PISA  131 

From  the  top  we  looked  around  us,  and  as  far  as 
eye  might  strain, 

Saw  no  sign  of  life  or  motion  in  the  town  or  on 
the  plain. 

Hardly  seemed  the  river  moving,  through  the  wil- 
lows to  the  main; 

Nor  was  any  noise  disturbing  Pisa  from  her 
drowsy  hour, 

Save  the  doves  that  fluttered  'neath  us,  in  and  out 
and  round  the  tower. 

Not  a  shout  from  gladsome  children,  or  the  clatter 
of  a  wheel, 

Nor  the  spinner  of  the  suburb,  winding  his  dis- 
cordant reel, 

Nor  the  stroke  upon  the  pavement  of  a  hoof  or  of 
a  heel. 

Even  the  slumberers  in  the  churchyard  of  the 
Campo  Santo  seemed 

Scarce  more  quiet  than  the  living  world  that  un- 
derneath us  dreamed. 

Dozing  at  the  city's  portal,  heedless  guard  the 

sentry  kept, 
More  than  Oriental  dulness  o'er  the  sunny  farms 

had  crept, 
Near  the  walls  the  ducal  herdsman  by  the  dusty 

roadside  slept; 
While  his  camels,  resting  round  him,  half  alarmed 

the  sullen  ox, 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Seeing  those  Arabian  monsters  pasturing  with 
Etruria's  flocks. 

Then  it  was,  like  one  who  wandered,  lately,  sing- 
ing by  the  Rhine, 

Strains  perchance  to  maiden's  hearing  sweeter 
than  this  verse  of  mine, 

That  we  bade  Imagination  lift  us  on  her  wing 
divine, 

And  the  days  of  Pisa's  greatness  rose  from  the 
sepulchral  past, 

When  a  thousand  conquering  galleys  bore  her 
standard  at  the  mast. 

Memory  for  a  moment  crowned  her  sovereign  mis- 
tress of  the  seas, 

When  she  braved,  upon  the  billows,  Venice  and  the 
Genoese, 

Daring  to  deride  the  Pontiff,  though  he  shook  his 
angry  keys. 

When  her  admirals  triumphant,  riding  o'er  the 
Soldan's  waves, 

Brought  from  Calvary's  holy  mountain  fitting  soil 
for  knightly  graves. 

When  the  Saracen  surrendered,  one  by  one,  his 

pirate  isles, 
And  Ionia's  marbled  trophies  decked  Lungarno's 

Gothic  piles, 


PISA  133 

Where  the  festal  music  floated  in  the  light  of 
ladies'  smiles ; 

Soldiers  in  the  busy  courtyard,  nobles  in  the  hall 
above, 

O,  those  days  of  arms  are  over, — arms  and  cour- 
tesy and  love! 

Down  in  yonder  square  at  sunrise,  lo !  the  Tuscan 

troops  arrayed, 
Every  man  in  Milan  armour,  forged  in  Brescia 

every  blade : 
Sigismondi  is  their  captain, — Florence!  art  thou 

not  dismayed? 
There's   Lanfranchi!   there    the    bravest   of   the 

Gherardesca  stem, 
Hugolino, — with  the  bishop;  but  enough,  enough 

of  them. 


Now,  as  on  Achilles'  buckler,  next  a  peaceful  scene 
succeeds ; 

Pious  crowds  in  the  cathedral  duly  tell  their  bles- 
sed beads ; 

Students  walk  the  learned  cloister ;  Ariosto  wakes 
the  reeds ; 

Science  dawns;  and  Galileo  opens  to  the  Italian 
youth, 

As  he  were  a  new  Columbus,  new  discovered  realms 
of  truth. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Hark !  what  murmurs  from  the  million  in  the  bust- 
ling market  rise! 

All  the  lanes  are  loud  with  voices,  all  the  windows 
dark  with  eyes ; 

Black  with  men  the  marble  bridges,  heaped  the 
shores  with  merchandise ; 

Turks  and  Greeks  and  Libyan  merchants  in  the 
square  their  councils  hold, 

And  the  Christian  altars  glitter  gorgeous  with 
Byzantine  gold. 

Look!  anon  the  masqueraders  don  their  holiday 

attire ; 
Every  palace   is   illumined, — all  the   town   seems 

built  of  fire, — 
Rainbow-coloured  lanterns  dangle  from  the  top  of 

every  spire. 
Pisa's  patron  saint  hath  hallowed  to  himself  the 

joyful  day, 
Never  on  the  thronged  Rialto  showed  the  Carnival 

more  gay. 

Suddenly  the  bell  beneath  us  broke  the  vision  with 
its  chime. 

"Signors,"  quoth  our  gray  attendant,  "it  is  al- 
most vesper  time." 

Vulgar  life  resumed  its  empire, — down  we  dropt 
from  the  sublime, 


PISA  135 

Here  and  there  a  friar  passed  us,  as  we  paced  the 

silent  streets, 
And  a  cardinal's  rumbling  carriage  roused  the 

sleepers  from  the  seats. 

THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS. 


PISA:  THE  DUOMO 

Lo,  this  is  like  a  song  writ  long  ago, 

Born  of  the  easy  strength  of  simpler  days, 
Filled  with  the  life  of  man,  his  joy,  his  praise, 

Marriage  and  childhood,  love,  and  sin,  and  woe, 

Defeat  and  victory,  and  all  men  know 
Of  passionate  remorses,  and  the  stays 
That  help  the  weary  on  life's  rugged  ways. 

A  dreaming  seraph  felt  this  beauty  grow 

In  sleep's  pure  hour,  and  with  joy  grown  bold 

Set  the  fair  vision  in  the  thought  of  man; 

And  Time,  with  antique  tints  of  ivory  wan, 
And  gentle  industries  of  rain  and  light, 
Its  stones  rejoiced,  and  o'er  them  crumbled  gold 

Won  from  the  boundaries  of  day  and  night. 

SILAS  WEIR  MITCHELL. 


BATHS  OF  LUCCA 


WRITTEN  AT  THE  BATHS  OF  LUCCA 

THE  fireflies,  pulsing  forth  their  rapid  gleams, 

Are  the  only  light 

That   breaks    the   night; 
A  stream,  that  has  the  voice  of  many  streams, 

Is  the  only  sound 

All  around: 

And  we  have  found  our  way  to  the  rude  stone, 
Where  many  a  twilight  we  have  sat  alone, 
Though  in  this  summer-darkness  never  yet ; 
We  have  had  happy,  happy  moments  here, 
We  have  had  thoughts  we  never  can  forget, 
Which  will  go  on  with  us  beyond  the  bier. 

The  very  lineaments  of  thy  dear  face 
I  do  not  see,  but  yet  its  influence 
I  feel,  even  as  my  outward  sense  perceives 
The  freshening  presence  of  the  chestnut  leaves, 
Whose  vaguest  forms  my  eye  can  only  trace, 
By  following  where  the  darkness  seems  most  dense. 
What  light,  what  sight,  what  form,  can  be  to  us 
Beautiful  as  this  gloom? 
136 


BATHS  OF  LUCCA  137 

We  have  come  down,  alive  and  conscious, 

Into  a  blessed  tomb : 

We  have  left  the  world  behind  us, 

Her  vexations  cannot  find  us, 

We  are  too  far  away ; 

There  is  something  to  gainsay 

In  the  life  of  every  day ! 

But  in  this  delicious  death 

We  let  go  our  mortal  breath, 

Naught  to  feel  and  hear  and  see, 

But  our  heart's  felicity; 

Naught  with  which  to  be  at  war, 

Naught  to  fret  our  shame  or  pride, 

Knowing  only  that  we  are, 

Caring  not  what  is  beside. 

LOED    HOUGHTON. 


CARRARA 


THE  HILLS  OF  CARRARA 

The  mountains  of  Carrara,  from  which  nearly 
all  the  marble  now  used  in  sculpture  is  derived, 
form  by  far  the  finest  piece  of  hill  scenery  I  know 
in  Italy.  They  rise  out  of  valleys  of  exquisite 
richness,  being  themselves  singularly  desolate, 
magnificent  in  form,  and  noble  in  elevation;  but 
without  forests  on  their  flanks,  and  without  one 
blade  of  grass  on  their  summits. 

I 

AMIDST  a  vale  of  springing  leaves, 

Where  spreads  the  vine  its  wandering  root, 
And  cumbrous  fall  the  autumnal  sheaves, 
And  olives  shed  their  sable  fruit, 
And  gentle  winds  and  waters  never  mute 
Make  of  young  boughs  and  pebbles  pure 

One  universal  lute, 
And    bright    birds,    through    the    myrtle    copse 

obscure, 
Pierce,  with  quick  notes,  and  plumage  dipped  in 

dew, 

The  silence  and  the  shade  of  each  lulled  avenue, — 

138 


CARRARA  139 

II 

Far  in  the  depths  of  voiceless  skies, 

Where  calm  and  cold  the  stars  are  strewed, 
The  peaks  of  pale  Carrara  rise. 

Nor  sound  of  storm,  nor  whirlwind  rude, 
Can  break  their  chill  of  marble  solitude ; 
The  crimson  lightnings  round  their  crest 

May  hold  their  fiery  feud — 
They  hear  not,  nor  reply;  their  chasmed  rest 
No  flowret  decks,  nor  herbage  green,  nor  breath 
Of  moving  thing  can  change  their  atmosphere  of 
death. 

m 

But  far  beneath,  in  folded  sleep, 

Faint  forms  of  heavenly  life  are  laid, 
With  pale  brows  and  soft  eyes,  that  keep 

Sweet  peace  of  unawakened  shade ; 

Whose  wreathed  limbs,  in  robes  of  rock  arrayed, 
Fall  like  white  waves  on  human  thought, 

In  fitful  dreams  displayed ; 
Deep  through    their    secret    homes    of    slumber 

sought, 

They  rise  immortal,  children  of  the  day, 
Gleaming  with  godlike  forms  on  earth,  and  her 
decay. 

IV 

Yes,  where  the  bud  hath  brightest  germ, 
And  broad  the  golden  blossoms  glow, 


140       THEOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

There  glides  the  snake,  and  works  the  worm, 

And  black  the  earth  is  laid  below. 

Ah !  think  not  thou  the  souls  of  men  to  know, 
By  outward  smiles  in  wildness  worn ; 

The  words  that  jest  at  woe 

Spring  not  less  lightly,  though  the  heart  be  torn — 
The  mocking  heart,  that  scarcely  dares  confess, 
Even  to  itself,  the  strength  of  its  own  bitterness. 

V 
Nor  deem  that  they  whose  words  are  cold, 

Whose  brows  are  dark,  have  hearts  of  steel ; 
The  couchant  strength,  untraced,  untold, 

Of  thoughts  they  keep,  and  throbs  they  feel, 

May  need  an  answering  music  to  unseal ; 
Who  knows  what  waves  may  stir  the  silent  sea, 

Beneath  the  low  appeal, 

From  distant  shores,  of  winds  unfelt  by  thee? 
What  sounds  may  wake  within  the  winding  shell, 
Responsive  to  the  charm  of  those  who  touch  it 
well!  JOHN  RUSKIN. 


LERICI 


LINES  WRITTEN  NEAR  SHELLEY'S 
HOUSE 

AND  here  he  paced !     These  glimmering  pathways 
strewn 

With  faded   leaves   his   light,   swift   footsteps 

crushed ; 
The  odour  of  yon  pine  was  o'er  him  blown ; 

Music  went  by  him  in  each  wind  that  brushed 
Those  yielding  stems  of  ilex!     Here,  alone, 

He  walked  at  noon,  or  silent  stood  and  hushed 
When  the  ground-ivy  flashed  the  moonlight  sheen 
Back  from  the  forest  carpet  always  green. 

Poised  as  on  air  the  lithe  elastic  bower 

Now  bends,  resilient  now  against  the  wind 

Recoils,  like  Dryads  that  one  moment  cower 
And  rise  the  next  with  loose  locks  unconfined ; 

Through  the  dim  roof  like  gems  the  sunbeams 

shower ; 
Old  cypress-trunks  the  aspiring  bay-trees  bind, 

And  soon  will  have  them  wholly  underneath: 

Types  eminent  of  glory  conquering  death. 

141 


THEOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Far  down  upon  the  shelves  and  sands  below 

The  respirations  of  a  southern  sea 
Beat  with  susurrant  cadence,  soft  and  slow : 

Round  the  grey  cave's  fantastic  imagery, 
In  undulation  eddying  to  and  fro, 

The  purple  waves  swell  up  or  backward  flee ; 
While,  dewed  at  each  rebound  with  gentlest  shock, 
The  myrtle  leans  her  green  breast  on  the  rock. 

And  here  he  stood ;  upon  his  face  that  light, 

Streamed  from  some  furthest  realm  of  luminous 
thought, 

Which  clothed  his  fragile  beauty  with  the  might 
Of  suns  forever  rising !    Here  he  caught 

Visions  divine.    He  saw  in  fiery  flight 

"The  hound  of  Heaven,"   with  heavenly   ven- 
geance fraught, 

"Run  down  the  slanted  sunlight  of  the  morn" — 

Prometheus  frown  on  Jove  with  scorn  for  scorn. 

He  saw  white  Arethusa,  leap  on  leap, 

Plunge  from  the  Acroceraunian  ledges  bare 

With  all  her  torrent  streams,  while  from  the  steep 
Alpheus  bounded  on  her  unaware: 

Hellas  he  saw,  a  giant  fresh  from  sleep, 

Break  from  the  night  of  bondage  and  despair. 

Who  but  had  sung  as  there  he  stood  and  smiled, 

"Justice    and    truth    have    found    their    winged 
child!" 


LERICI 

Through  cloud  and  wave  and  star  his  insight  keen 
Shone  clear,  and  traced  a  god  in  each  disguise, 

Protean,  boundless.     Like  the  buskined  scene 
All  nature  rapt  him  into  ecstasies : 

In  him,  alas !  had  reverence  equal  been 

With  admiration,  those  resplendent  eyes 

Had  wandered  not  through  all  her  range  sublime 

To  miss  the  one  great  marvel  of  all  time. 

The  winds  sang  loud;  from  this  Elysian  nest 
He  rose,  and  trod  yon  spine  of  mountains  bleak, 

While  stormy  suns  descending  in  the  west 

Stained  as  with  blood  yon  promontory's  beak. 

That  hour,  responsive  to  his  soul's  unrest, 
Carrara's  marble  summits,  peak  to  peak, 

Sent  forth  their  thunders  like  the  battle-cry 

Of  nations  arming  for  the  victory. 

AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


SAN  TERENZO 


SAN  TERENZO 

MID-APRIL  seemed  like  some  November  day, 
When  through  the  glassy  waters,  dull  as  lead, 
Our  boat,  like  shadowy  barques  that  bear  the  dead, 
Slipped  down  the  long  shores  of  the  Spezian  bay, 
Rounded  a  point, — and  San  Terenzo  lay 
Before  us,  that  gay  village,  yellow  and  red, 
The  roof  that  covered  Shelley's  homeless  head, — 
His  house,  a  place  deserted,  bleak  and  grey. 
The  waves  broke  on  the  doorstep ;  fishermen 
Cast  their  long  nets,  and  drew,  and  cast  again. 
Deep  in  the  ilex  woods  we  wandered  free, 
When  suddenly  the  forest  glades  were  stirred 
With  waving  pinions,  and  a  great  sea  bird 
Flew  forth,  like  Shelley's  spirit,  to  the  sea! 

ANDREW  LANG. 


144 


SAN  GIMIGNANO 


BELOW  SAN  GIMIGNANO 

MY  city  overmasters  plain  and  hill, 

With  skyward  turrets  to  the  sun  and  storm. 
Firm-set  forever,  but  aspiring  still, 
It  looms  on  high,  an  elemental  form 

Poised  imminent  aloft,  superb  and  proud. 
Against  the  hard  blue  ether  it  is  warm 

With  the  dull  tint  of  bronze ;  but  when  black 

cloud 

Rains  down,  and  rims  the  farther  hills  with  night, 
It  glimmers  forth  from  out  its  murky  shroud 
Like  a  young  beech-wood,  tremulously  white. 

Nearby,  it  smiles  with  friendly  sympathy, 
Intimate,  with  the  changing  moods  of  light 
Upon  its  towers,  where  jasmine  dizzily 

Clings  in  the  weathered  crannies  of  the  stone. 
It  drowses  on  in  grey  serenity 

Within  a  wall  by  ivy  overgrown ; 
The  vines  go  rippling  to  the  bastion-ledge, 
And  over  it  the  olive-leaves  are  blown 
Like  hovering  dust  above  the  roadside  sedge. 

The  gate  stands  wide  to  bid  all  welcome  in; 
Through  it  are  seen  wry-slanting  roofs  that  edge 
A  broken  line  of  sky,  and  walls  wherein 
145 


146       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Are  carved  escutcheons  of  a  long-dead  race. 
Familiar,  yet  mysterious,  'tis  a  place 
Worthy  a  life's  endeavouring  to  win. 
But  my  path  never  led  me  to  the  gate. 

Once  only,  I  stood  close  beneath  the  wall 
And  heard  a  voice  within,  singing,  elate, 
Of  life  and  love ;  I  saw  the  shadow  crawl 

Toward   sunset,   'round  the  curving  of  the 

keep; 
I  saw  the  level  sunlight  strike  and  fall 

Shimmering  down  along  the  western  steep 

Of  one  gaunt  tower  above  me,  while  the  brown 

Upon  its  southern  wall  was  covered  deep 

In  purple  shadows.    Then  the  sun  went  down. 

And  I  aroused  myself  to  seek  a  way 
Into  the  friendly  silence  of  the  town; 

But  wall  and  tower  had  vanished  with  the  day, — 

Down  over  all  a  phantom  mist  had  drawn. 
All  night  I  sought  along  the  hill,  astray 
O'er  steeps,  through  thickets ;  till  the  flushing  sky 
Lured  my  gaze  up  to  where  the  city  lay 

Remote  and  beautiful  against  the  dawn, 
Serene  and  unattainable  on  high. 

JOHN  V.  A.  MAC  MURRAY, 


SIENA 

SIENA 

INSIDE  this  northern  summer's  fold 
The  fields  are  full  of  naked  gold, 
Broadcast  from  heaven  on  lands  it  loves ; 
The  green  veiled  air  is  full  of  doves ; 
Soft  leaves  that  sift  the  sunbeams  let 
Light  on  the  small  warm  grasses  wet, 
Fall  in  short  broken  kisses  sweet, 
And  break  again  like  waves  that  beat 
Round  the  sun's  feet. 

But  I,  for  all  this  English  mirth 

Of  golden-shod  and  dancing  days, 

And  the  old  green-girt,  sweet-hearted  earth, 

Desire  what  here  no  spell  can  raise. 

Far  hence,  with  holier  heavens  above, 

The  lovely  city  of  my  love 

Bathes  deep  in  the  sun-satiate  air 

That  flows  round  no  fair  thing  more  fair, 

Her  beauty  bare. 

There  the  utter  sky  is  holier,  there 
More  pure  the  intense  white  height  of  air, 
More  clear  men's  eyes  that  mine  would  meet, 
And  the  sweet  springs  of  things  more  sweet. 

147 


148       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

There  for  this  one  warm  note  of  doves 
A  clamour  of  a  thousand  loves 
Storms  the  night's  ear,  the  day's  assails, 
From  the  tempestuous  nightingales, 
And  fills,  and  fails. 

O  gracious  city  well-beloved, 

Italian,  and  a  maiden  crowned, 

Siena,  my  feet  are  no  more  moved 

Toward  thy  strange-shapen  mountain  bound 

But  my  heart  in  me  turns  and  moves, 

O  lady  loveliest  of  my  loves, 

Toward  thee,  to  lie  before  thy  feet 

And  gaze  from  thy  fair  fountain-seat 

Up  the  sheer  street ; 

And  the  house  midway  hanging  see 
That  saw  Saint  Catherine  bodily, 
Felt  on  its  floors  her  sweet  feet  move, 
And  the  live  light  of  fiery  love 
Burn  from  her  beautiful,  strange  face, 
As  in  the  sanguine  sacred  place 
Where  in  pure  hands  she  took  the  head 
Severed,  and  with  pure  lips  still  red 

Kissed  the  lips  dead. 

***** 

For  the  outer  land  is  sad,  and  wears 

A  raiment  of  flaming  fire; 
And  the  fierce,  fruitless  mountain  stairs 

Climb,  yet  seem  wroth  and  loth  to  aspire, 


SIENA  149 

Climb,  and  break,  and  are  broken  down, 
And  through  their  clefts  and  crests  the  town 
Looks  west  and  sees  the  dead  sun  lie 
In  sanguine  death  that  stains  the  sky 
With  angry  dye. 

And  from  the  war-worn  wastes  without 

In  twilight,  in  the  time  of  doubt, 

One  sound  comes  of  one  whisper,  where, 

Moved  with  low  motions  of  slow  air, 

The  great  trees  nigh  the  castle  swing 

In  the  sad  colored  evening ; 

"  Ricorditi  di  me,  die  son 

La  Pia" — that  small  sweet  word  alone 

Is  not  yet  gone. 

"  Ricorditi  di  me" — the  sound 

Sole  out  of  deep  dumb  days  remote 

Across  the  fiery  and  fatal  ground 

Comes  tender  as  a  hurt  bird's  note 

To  where,  a  ghost  with  empty  hands, 

A  woe-worn  ghost,  her  palace  stands 

In  the  mid  city,  where  the  strong 

Bells  turn  the  sunset  air  to  song, 

And  the  towers  throng. 

With  other  face,  with  speech  the  same, 
A  mightier  maiden's  likeness  came 
Late  among  mourning  men  that  slept, 
A  sacred  ghost  that  went  and  wept, 


150       THEOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

White  as  the  passion-wounded  Lamb, 

Saying,  "Ah,  remember  me,  that  am 

Italia."    (From  deep  sea  to  sea 

Earth  heard,  earth  knew  her,  that  this  was  she.) 

"Ricorditi." 

*  *  *  *  * 

ALGEENON  CHAELES  SWINBUENE. 


THE  VILLA 

LET  me  go  back  to  when  I  saw  you  last. 
Our  lives  till  then  had  close  together  lain, 
Shaped  each  to  each  in  habit,  feeling,  thought, 
Like  almonds  twinned  within  a  single  shell. 
What  thought  or  hope  was  mine  that  was  not 

yours  ? 

What  joy  was  mine  that  was  not  shared  with  you? 
All  was  so  innocent  when  we  were  girls ; 
Our  little  walks, — the  days  you  spent  with  me 
In  the  old  villa, — where,  with  arms  loose  clasped 
Around  each  other's  waists,  we  roamed  along 
Among  the  giant  orange-pots  that  stood 
At  every  angle  of  our  garden-plot, 
And  told  our  secrets,  while  the  fountain  plashed, 
And,  waving  in  the  breeze,  its  vail  of  mist 
Swept  o'er  our  faces.    Think  of  those  long  hours 
We  in  the  arched  and  open  loggia  sat 


SIENA  151 

Pricking    the    bright    flowers    on    our    broidery 

frames, 

And  as  we  chatted,  lifting  oft  our  eyes, 
We  gazed  at  Amiata's  purple  height, 
Trembling  behind  its  opal  veil  of  air ; 
Or  on  the  nearer  slopes  through  the  green  lanes, 
Fenced  either  side  with  rich  and  running  vines, 
Watched  the  white  oxen  trail  their  basket-carts, 
Or  contadine  with  wide-flapping  hats 
Singing  amid  the  olives,  whose  old  trunks 
Stood  knee-deep  in  the  golden  fields  of  grain. 
Do  you  remember  the  red  poppies,  too, 
That  glowed  amid  the  tender  green  of  spring, — 
The  purple  larkspur  that  assumed  their  place 
Mid  the  sheared  stubble  of  the  autumn  fields, — 
The  ilex  walk, — the  acacia's  fingered  twigs, — 
The  rose-hued  oleanders  peeping  o'er 
The     terraced     wall, — the     slanting      wall     that 

propped 

Our  garden,  from  whose  clefts  the  caper  plants 
Spirted  their  leaves  and  burst  in  plumy  flowers  ? 
All  these  are  still  the  same,  they  do  not  miss 
The  eye  that  loved  them  so ;  and  yet  how  oft 
I  wonder  if  those  old  magnolia-trees 
Still  feed  the  air  with  their  great  creamy  flowers, 
And  show  the  wind  their  rusted  under-leaf. 
I  wonder  if  that  trumpet-flower  is  dead. 
O  heaven !  they  all  should  be,  I  loved  them  so ; 
Some  one  has  killed  them,  if  they  have  not  died. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

But  you  can  see  the  villa  any  day, 
And  I  am  wearying  you.    Yet  all  these  things 
Are  beads  upon  the  rosary  of  youth, 
And  just  to  say  their  names  recalls  those  hours 
So  full  of  joy, — each  bead  is  like  a  prayer. 
How  many  an  hour  I've  sat  and  dreamed  of  them ! 
And  dear  Siena,  with  its  Campo  tower 
That  seems  to  fall  against  the  trooping  clouds, 
And  the  great  Duomo  with  its  pavement  rich, 
Till  sick  at  heart  I  felt  that  I  must  die. 
People  are  kneeling  there  upon  it  now, 
But  I  shall  never  kneel  there  any  more ; 
And  bells  rings  out  on  happy  festivals, 
And  all  the  pious  people  flock  to  mass, 
But  I  shall  never  go  there  any  more. 
How  all  these  little  things  come  back  to  me 
That  I  shall  never  see, — no,  nevermore ! 
O,  kiss  the  pavement,  dear,  when  you  go  back ! 
Whisper  a  prayer  for  me  where  once  I  knelt, 
And  tell  the  dead  stones  how  I  love  them  still. 
WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY. 


MONTEPULCIANO 

MONTEPULCIANO  WINE 

HEARKEN,  all  earth ! 

We,  Bacchus,  in  the  might  of  our  great  mirth, 

To  all  who  reverence  us,  and  are  right  thinkers  ;- 

Hear,  all  ye  drinkers ! 

Give  ear,  and  give  faith,  to  our  edict  divine, — 

Multepulciano's  the  King  of  all  Wine ! 

At  these  glad  sounds, 

The  Nymphs,  in  giddy  rounds, 

Shaking  their  ivy  diadems  and  grapes, 

Echoed  the  triumph  in  a  thousand  shapes. 

The  Satyrs  would  have  joined  them;  but  alas! 

They  couldn't ;  for  they  lay  about  the  grass, 

As  drunk  as  apes.  TRANCESCO  REDI. 

Tr.  Leigh  Hunt. 


158 


LAKE  THRASYMENE 

LINES 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  VILLAGE  OF  PASSIGNANO,   ON   THE 
LAKE  OF  THRASYMENE 

THE  mountains  stand  about  the  quiet  lake, 

That  not  a  breath  its  azure  calm  may  break ; 

No  leaf  of  these  sere  olive-trees  is  stirred, 

In  the  near  silence  far-off  sounds  are  heard ; 

The  tiny  bat  is  flitting  overhead ; 

The  hawthorn  doth  its  richest  odours  shed 

Into  the  dewy  air ;  and  over  all, 

Veil  after  veil,  the  evening  shadows  fall, 

Withdrawing  one  by  one  each  glimmering  height, 

The  far,  and  then  the  nearer,  from  our  sight, — 

No  sign  surviving  in  this  tranquil  scene, 

That  strife  and  savage  tumult  here  have  been. 

But  if  the  pilgrim  to  the  latest  plain 
Of  carnage,  where  the  blood  like  summer  rain 
Fell  but  the  other  day, — if  in  his  mind 
He  marvels  much  and  oftentimes  to  find 
With  what  success  has  Nature  each  sad  trace 

154 


LAKE  THRASYMENE  155 

Of  man's  red  footmarks  labored  to  efface, — 
What  wonder,  if  this  spot  we  tread  appears 
Guiltless  of  strife,  when  now  two  thousand  years 
Of  daily  reparation  have  gone  by, 
Since  it  resumed  its  own  tranquillity? 
This  calm  has  nothing  strange,  yet  not  the  less 
This  holy  evening's  solemn  quietness, 
The  perfect  beauty  of  this  windless  lake, 
This  stillness  which  no  harsher  murmurs  break 
Than  the  frogs  croaking  from  the  distant  sedge, 
These  vineyards  dressed  unto  the  water's  edge, 
This  hind  that  homeward  driving  the  slow  steer 
Tells  how  man's  daily  work  goes  forward  here, 
Have  each  a  power  upon  me  while  I  drink 
The  influence  of  the  placid  time,  and  think 
How  gladly  that  sweet  Mother  once  again 
Resumes  her  sceptre  and  benignant  reign, 
But  for  a  few  short  instants  scared  away 
By  the  mad  game,  the  cruel,  impious  fray 
Of  her  distempered  children, — how  comes  back, 
And  leads  them  in  the  customary  track 
Of  blessing  once  again ;  to  order  brings 
Anew  the  dislocated  frame  of  things, 
And  covers  up,  and  out  of  sight  conceals 
What  they  have  wrought  of  ill,  or  gently  heals. 
RICHARD  CHENEVIX  TRENCH. 


156       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

THRASYMENE 

Is  this  the  spot  where  Rome's  eternal  foe 
Into  his  snares  the  mighty  legions  drew, 
Whence  from  the  carnage,  spiritless  and  few, 
A  remnant  scarcely  reached  her  gates  of  woe? 
Is  this  the  stream,  thus  gliding  soft  and  slow, 
That,  from   the  gushing  wounds   of  thousands, 

grew 

So  fierce  a  flood,  that  waves  of  crimson  hue 
Rushed  on  the  bosom  of  the  lake  below? 
The  mountains  that  gave  back  the  battle-cry 
Are  silent  now ; — perchance  yon  hillocks  green 
Mark  where  the  bones  of  those  old  warriors  lie ! 
Heaven  never  gladdened  a  more  peaceful  scene ; 
Never  left  softer  breeze  a  fairer  sky 
To  sport  upon  thy  waters,  Thrasymene. 

CHARLES  STRONG. 


FAREWELL  TO  TUSCANY 

WE  pass ;  but  they  remain. 

What  though  our  feet  upon  this  mountain  stair 
Be  upward,  backward  bent 
Beneath  the  cold  unpitying  firmament, 
With  stress  and  strain ; 

Yet  all  that  was  so  passing  fair, 

We  leave  behind  us  in  the  warm  transparent  air. 


LAKE  THRASYMENE  157 

We  carry  memories  too : 

Sad  phantoms  of  the  days  we  reckoned  dear; 
Strong  tyrannous  desires, 
With  hands  that  cling  and  eyes  whose  tears 

are  fires : 

The  wine  is  new  \ 

Still  on  our  lips  of  autumn  here, 
Which  we  too  soon  shall  change  for  Alpine  win- 
ter drear. 

Florence  lies  far  behind ; 

Her  grave  grey  palace-fronts,  her  lily  towers ; 
The  curves  of  Arno  bright 
With    star-set    lamps    that    tremble    in    the 

night ; 
Her  wild  west  wind, 

That  shook  those  lightning-smitten  showers 
And  flakes   of  sunbeams   on  the  pale  October 
flowers. 

How  far  the  dancing  waves 

Of  Spezia,  where  the  silvered  olives  sleep, 
And  flower-sprent  myrtle  sprays 
Sweeten  the  sunny  air  by  silent  bays ! 
The  calm  sea  laves 

Those  crags — but  not  for  us — and  deep 
Dreams   on   the   sapphire  cliffs   and   stairs   of 
marble  steep. 


158       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Ah  me !    No  more  for  us 

Spreads    the    clear    world-wide    Tuscan    land 

divine ; 

Fold  over  billowy  fold 
Of  fertile  vale  and  tower-set  mountain  old, 
Innumerous. 

As  crowds  of  crested  waves  that  shine 

In  sun  and  shadow  on  the  spaceless  ocean  brine. 

Soul-full  we  said  Farewell ! 

What  time  those  tears  from  flying  storms  were 

cast 

O'er  Thrasymene  and  thee, 
Loveliest  of  hills,  whatever  hills  may  be 
Loved  for  the  spell 

Of  names  that  in  the  memory  last, 
And  with  strange  sweetness  link  our  present  to 
the  past ! 

Mont'  Amiata,  thou 

Shalt  take  the  envoy  of  this  sorrow-song ! 
For  thou  still  gazest  down 
On  Chiusi,  and  Siena's  marble  crown, 
The  bare  hill-brow 

Where  gleams  Cortona,  and  the  strong 
Light  of  the  lands  I  love,  the  lands  for  which  I 
long. 

JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS. 


UMBRIA 


IN  UMBRIA 

UNDER  a  roof  of  twisted  boughs 
And  silver  leaves  and  noon-day  sky, 

Among  gaunt  trunks,  where  lizards  house, 
On  the  hot  sun-burnt  grass  I  lie ; 

I  hear  soft  notes  of  birds  that  drowse, 
And  steps  that  echo  by 

Unseen,  along  the  sunken  way 

That  drops  below  the  city-wall. 
Not  of  to-day,  nor  yesterday, 

The  hidden,  holy  feet  that  fall. 
O  whispering  leaves,  beseech  them  stay ! 

O  birds,  awake  and  call ! 

Say  that  a  pilgrim,  j  ourneying  long, 
From  that  loud  land  that  lies  to  west, 

Where  tongues  debate  of  right  and  wrong, 
Would  be  "The  Little  Poor  Man's"  guest ; 

Would  learn  "The  Lark's"  divine  "Sun-Song," 
And  how  glad  hearts  are  blest. 
159 


160       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Say:  "Master,  we  of  over-seas 

Confess  that  oft  our  hearts  are  set 

On  gold  and  gain ;  and  if,  with  these, 
For  lore  of  books  we  strive  and  fret, 

Perchance  some  lore  of  bended  knees 
And  saint-hood  we  forget ; 

"Still,  in  one  thought  our  lips  are  bold — 
That,  in  our  world  of  haste  and  care, 

Through  days  whose  hours  are  bought  and  sold, 
Days  full  of  deeds,  and  scant  of  prayer, 

Of  thy  life's  gospel  this  we  hold : 
The  hands  that  toil  are  fair. 

"Therefore,  forgive;  assoil  each  stain 
Of  trade  and  hate,  of  war  and  wrath ; 

Teach  us  thy  tenderness  for  pain ; 
Thy  music  that  no  other  hath ; 

Thy  fellowship  with  sun  and  rain, 
And  flowers  along  thy  path." 

Thou  dost  not  answer.    Down  the  track 
Where  now  I  thought  thy  feet  must  pass, 

With  patient  step  and  burdened  back 
Go,  "Brother  Ox"  and  "Brother  Ass." 

A  mountain  cloud  looms  swift  and  black, 
O'ershadowing  stone  and  grass. 

The  silver  leaves  are  turned  to  gray ; 

There  comes  no  sound  from  hedge  nor  tree ; 


UMBRIA  161 

Only  a  voice  from  far  away, 

Borne  o'er  the  silent  hills  to  me, 
Entreats :  "Be  light  of  heart  to-day : 

To-morrow  joy  shall  be. 

"The  glad  of  heart  no  hope  betrays, 

Since  'Mother  Earth'  and  'Sister  Death' 

Are  good  to  know,  and  sweet  to  praise." 
I  hear  not  all  the  far  voice  saith 

Of  Love,  that  trod  green  Umbriari  ways, 
And  streets  of  Nazareth. 

HELEN  J.  SANBORN. 


PERUGIA 


FROM  PERUGIA 

THE  tall,  sallow  guardsmen  their  horse-tails  have 

spread, 

Flaming  out  in  their  violet,  yellow,  and  red ; 
And  behind  go  the  lackeys  in  crimson  and  buff, 
And  the  chamberlains  gorgeous  in  velvet  and  ruff ; 
Next,   in    red-legged   pomp,   come   the   cardinals 

forth, 
Each  a  lord  of  the  church  and  a  prince  of  the 

earth. 

What's  this  squeak  of  the  fife,  and  this  batter  of 

drum? 

Lo !  the  Swiss  of  the  Church  from  Perugia  come, — 
The  militant  angels,  whose  sabres  drive  home 
To   the   hearts   of   the  malcontents,    cursed   and 

abhorred, 
The  good  Father's  missives,  and  "Thus  saith  the 

Lord!" 
And  lend  to  his  logic  the  point  of  the  sword ! 

O  maids  of  Etruria,  gazing  forlorn 
O'er  dark  Thrasymenus,  dishevelled  and  torn ! 

162 


PEEUGIA  163 

O  fathers,  who  pluck  at  your  gray  beards  for 

shame ! 

O  mothers,  struck  dumb  by  a  woe  without  name ! 
Well   ye   know   how    the   Holy    Church   hireling 

behaves, 
And  his  tender  compassion  of  prisons  and  graves ! 

There  they  stand,  the  hired  stabbers,  the  blood- 
stains yet  fresh, 

That  splashed  like  red  wine  from  the  vintage  of 
flesh, — 

Grim  instruments,  careless  as  pincers  and  rack 

How  the  joints  tear  apart,  and  the  strained  sinews 
crack ; 

But  the  hate  that  glares  on  them  is  sharp  as  their 
swords, 

And  the  sneer  and  the  scowl  print  the  air  with 
fierce  words ! 

Off  with  hats,  down  with  knees,  shout  your  vivas 

like  mad ! 

Here's  the  Pope  in  his  holiday  righteousness  clad, 
From  shorn  crown  to  toe-nail,  kiss-worn  to  the 

quick, 

Of  sainthood  in  purple  the  pattern  and  pick, 
Who  the  role  of  the  priest  and  the  soldier  unites, 
And,  praying  like  Aaron,  like  Joshua  fights ! 

Is  this  Pio  Nono  the  gracious,  for  whom 
We  sang  our  hosannas  and  lighted  all  Rome ; 


164)       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

With  whose  advent  we  dreamed  the  new  era  began 
When  the  priest  should  be  human,  the  monk  be  a 

man? 
Ah,  the  wolf's  with  the  sheep,  and  the  fox  with 

the  fowl, 
When  freedom  we  trust  to  the  crozier  and  cowl ! 

Stand  aside,  men  of  Rome!  Here's  a  hangman- 
faced  Swiss 

(A  blessing  for  him  surely  can't  go  amiss) 

Would  kneel  down  the  sanctified  slipper  to  kiss. 

Short  shrift  will  suffice  him, — he's  blest  beyond 
doubt ; 

But  there's  blood  on  his  hands  which  would  scarce- 
ly wash  out, 

Though  Peter  himself  held  the  baptismal  spout ! 

Make  way  for  the  next!     Here's  another  sweet 

son! 

What's  this  mastiff- jawed  rascal  in  epaulets  done? 
He  did,  whispers  rumor  (its  truth  God  forbid !), 
At  Perugia  what  Herod  at  Bethlehem  did. 
And  the  mothers? — Don't  name  them! — these  hu- 
mors of  war 
They  who  keep  him  in  service  must  pardon  him 

for. 

Hist !  here's  the  arch-knave  in  a  cardinal's  hat, 
With  the  heart  of  a  wolf  and  the  stealth  of  a  cat 
(As  if  Judas  and  Herod  together  were  rolled). 


PERUGIA  165 

Who  keeps,  all  as  one,  the  Pope's  conscience  and 

gold, 
Mounts   guard   on   the   altar,   and   pilfers    from 

thence, 
And  flatters  St.  Peter  while  stealing  his  pence ! 

Who  doubts  Antonelli?    Have  miracles  ceased 
When  robbers  say  mass,  and  Barabbas  is  priest? 
When  the  Church  eats  and  drinks,  at  its  mystical 

board, 
The  true  flesh  and  blood  carved  and  shed  by  its 

sword, 
When  its  martyr,  unsinged,  claps  the  crown  on  his 

head, 
And  roasts,  as  his  proxy,  his  neighbour  instead! 

There!   the  bells  jow  and  jangle  the  same  blessed 

way 
That  they  did  when  they  rang  for  Bartholomew's 

day. 
Hark !  the  tallow-faced  monsters,  nor  women  nor 

boys, 

Vex  the  air  with  a  shrill,  sexless  horror  of  noise. 
Te  Deum  laudamus! — All  round  without  stint 
The  incense-pot  swings  with  a  taint  of  blood  in't ! 

And  now  for  the  blessing !    Of  little  account, 
You  know,  is  the  old  one  they  heard  on  the  Mount. 
Its  giver  was  landless,  his  raiment  was  poor, 


166       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

No  jewelled  tiara  his  fishermen  wore; 
No  incense,  no  lackeys,  no  riches,  no  home, 
No   Swiss   guards! — We  order  things  better  at 
Rome. 

So  bless  us  the  strong  hand,  and  curse  us  the  weak ; 
Let  Austria's  vulture  have  food  for  her  beak ; 
Let  the  wolf -whelp  of  Naples  play  Bomba  again, 
With  his  death-cap   of  silence,   and  halter,  and 

chain ; 

Put  reason  and  justice  and  truth  under  ban ; 
For  the  sin  unf orgiven  is  freedom  for  man ! 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER. 


ASSISI 


THE  SERMON  OF  ST.  FRANCIS 

UP  soared  the  lark  into  the  air, 
A  shaft  of  song,  a  winged  prayer, 
As  if  a  soul,  released  from  pain, 
Were  flying  back  to  heaven  again. 

St.  Francis  heard ;  it  was  to  him 
An  emblem  of  the  Seraphim ; 
The  upward  motion  of  the  fire, 
The  light,  the  heat,  the  heart's  desire. 

Around  Assisi's  convent  gate 
The  birds,  God's  poor  who  cannot  wait, 
From  moor  and  mere  and  darksome  wood 
Came  flocking  for  their  dole  of  food. 

"O  brother  birds,"  St.  Francis  said, 
"Ye  come  to  me  and  ask  for  bread, 
But  not  with  bread  alone  to-day 
Shall  ye  be  fed  and  sent  away. 

"Ye  shall  be  fed,  ye  happy  birds, 
With  manna  of  celestial  words ; 
Not  mine,  though  mine  they  seem  to  be, 
Not  mine,  though  they  be  spoken  through  me. 

167 


168       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

"O,  doubly  are  ye  bound  to  praise 
The  great  Creator  in  your  lays ; 
He  giveth  you  your  plumes  of  down, 
Your  crimson  hoods,  your  cloaks  of  brown. 

"He  giveth  you  your  wings  to  fly 
And  breathe  a  purer  air  on  high, 
And  careth  for  you  everywhere, 
Who  for  yourselves  so  little  care !" 

With  flutter  of  swift  wings  and  songs 
Together  rose  the  feathered  throngs, 
And  singing  scattered  far  apart ; 
Deep  peace  was  in  St.  Francis'  heart. 

He  knew  not  if  the  brotherhood 
His  homily  had  understood ; 
He  only  knew  that  to  one  ear 
The  meaning  of  his  words  was  clear. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


AT  ASSISI 

BEFORE  St.  Francis'  burg  I  wait, 
Frozen  in  spirit,  faint  with  dread ; 

His  presence  stands  within  the  gate, 
Mild  splendour  rings  his  head, 


ASSISI  169 

Gently  he  seems  to  welcome  me : 
Knows  he  not  I  am  quick,  and  he 
Is  dead,  and  priest  of  the  dead? 

I  turn  away  from  the  grey  church  pile ; 

I  dare  not  enter,  thus  undone : 
Here  in  the  roadside  grass  awhile 
I  will  lie  and  watch  for  the  sun. 

Too  purged  of  earth's  good  glee  and  strife, 
Too  drained  of  the  honied  lusts  of  life, 
Was  the  peace  these  old  saints  won ! 

And  lo !  how  the  laughing  earth  says  no 

To  the  fear  that  mastered  me ; 
To  the  blood  that  aches  and  clamours  so 
How  it  whispers  "Verily." 

Here  by  my  side,  marvellous-dyed, 
Bold  stray-away  from  the  courts  of  pride, 
A  poppy-bell  flaunts  free. 

St.  Francis  sleeps  upon  his  hill, 

And  a  poppy  flower  laughs  down  his  creed ; 
Triumphant  light  her  petals  spill, 
His  shrines  are  dim  indeed. 

Men  build  and  plan,  but  the  soul  of  man, 
Coming  with  haughty  eyes  to  scan, 
Feels  richer,  wilder  need. 

How  long,  old  builder  Time,  wilt  bide 
Till  at  thy  thrilling  word 


170       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Life's  crimson  pride  shall  have  to  bride 
The  spirit's  white  accord, 

Within  that  gate  of  good  estate 
Which  thou  must  build  us  soon  or  late, 
Hoar  workman  of  the  Lord? 

WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY. 


FROM  ASSIS1 

THE  UMBRIAN  PLAIN 

THOU  art  a  holy  poem,  sweet  Umbrian  plain, 

Forever  chanted  to  the  angels'  ear : 

Thy  tender  vines  beneath  the  hills  austere, 
Thy  shining  poppies  and  thy  springing  grain, 
All  murmur  softly  one  melodious  strain, 

While  Brother  Wind  breathes  low  that  he  may 
hear, 

And  floating  o'er  thy  far  horizons  clear, 
Our  Sister  Clouds  hearken  the  glad  refrain. 

A  poem  of  love  remembered :  day  by  day, 

Here,  with  some  chosen  brother  of  his  band, 
God's  Little  Poor  One  wandered,  lorn  and  gay, 
Weeping,  yet  singing  on  his  homeless  way 
Lauds  of  the  creatures :  and  the  lovely  land 
Still  holds  his  voice  for  those  who  understand. 

HELEN  J.  SANBORN. 


TERNI 


THE  FALLS  OF  TERNI 

THE    roar    of    waters! — from    the    headlong 

height 

Velino  cleaves  the  wave-worn  precipice : 
The  fall  of  waters !  rapid  as  the  light 
The  flashing  mass  foams  shaking  the  abyss : 
The  hell  of  waters !  where  they  howl  and  hiss, 
And  boil  in  endless  torture ;  while  the  sweat 
Of  their  great  agony,  wrung  out  from  this 
Their  Phlegethon,  curls  round  the  rocks  of  jet 
That  gird  the  gulf  around,  in  pitiless  horror  set. 

And   mounts   in   spray  the  skies,   and  thence 

again 

Returns  in  an  unceasing  shower,  which  round, 
With  its  unemptied  cloud  of  gentle  rain, 
Is  an  eternal  April  to  the  ground, 
Making  it  all  one  emerald.    How  profound 
The  gulf !  and  how  the  giant  element 
From  rock  to  rock  leaps  with  delirious  bound, 
Crushing  the  cliffs,  which  downward,  worn  and 

rent 
With  his  fierce  footsteps,  yield  in  chasms  a  fearful 

vent 

171 


THEOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

To  the  broad  column  which  rolls  on,  and  shows 

More  like  the  fountain  of  an  infant  sea 

Torn  from  the  womb  of  mountains  by  the  throes 

Of  a  new  world,  than  only  thus  to  be 

Parent  of  rivers,  which  flow  gushingly, 

With  many  windings  through  the  vale; — look 

back! 

Lo !  where  it  comes  like  an  eternity, 
As  if  to  sweep  down  all  things  in  its  track, 
Charming    the    eye    with    dread, — a     matchless 

cataract, 

Horribly  beautiful !  but  on  the  verge 
From  side  to  side,  beneath  the  glittering  morn, 
An  Iris  sits,  amidst  the  infernal  surge, 
Like  Hope  upon  a  death-bed,  and,  unworn 
Its  steady  dyes,  while  all  around  is  torn 
By  the  distracted  waters,  bears  serene 
Its  brilliant  hues  with  all  their  beams  unshorn : 
Resembling,  mid  the  torture  of  the  scene, 
Love  watching  Madness  with  unalterable  mien. 

LOED  BYEON. 


ORVIETO 


AN  EPISODE 

VASAIII  tells  that  Luca  Signorelli, 

The  morning  star  of  Michael  Angelo, 

Had  but  one  son,  a  youth  of  seventeen  summers, 

Who  died.    That  day  the  master  at  his  easel 

Wielded  the  liberal  brush  wherewith  he  painted 

At  Orvieto,  on  the  Duomo's  walls, 

Stern  forms  of  Death  and  Heaven  and  Hell  and 

Judgment. 
Then  came  they  to  him,  and  cried:  "Thy  son  is 

dead, 

Slain  in  a  duel ;  but  the  bloom  of  life 
Yet  lingers  round  red  lips  and  downy  cheek." 
Luca  spoke  not,  but  listen'd.   Next  they  bore 
His  dead  son  to  the  silent  painting-room, 
And  left  on  tiptoe  son  and  sire  alone. 
Still  Luca  spoke  and  groan'd  not ;  but  he  rais'd 
The  wonderful  dead  youth,  and  smooth'd  his  hair, 
Wash'd  his  red  wounds,  and  laid  him  on  a  bed, 
Naked  and  beautiful,  where  rosy  curtains 
Shed  a  soft  glimmer  of  uncertain  splendour 

Life-like  upon  the  marble  limbs  below. 

173 


174       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Then  Luca  seiz'd  his  palette :  hour  by  hour 
Silence  was  in  the  room ;  none  durst  approach : 
Morn  wore  to  noon,  and  noon  to  eve,  when  shyly 
A  little  maid  peep'd  in,  and  saw  the  painter 
Painting  his  dead  son  with  unerring  handstroke, 
Firm  and  dry-ey'd  before  the  lordly  canvas. 

JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS. 


VEII 


THE  DESOLATION  OF  VEII 

'TWAS  on  a  Sabbath  morning  that  we  wandered 

in  the  wood, 
Where  near  three  thousand  years  ago  the  ancient 

Veii  stood; 

There's  not  a  sound  of  life  there  now,  where  wan- 
dering alleys  meet, 

The  cylamen  and  violet  grow  purple  in  the  street ! 
The  glens  are  deep  and  leafy,  the  fields  are  green 

and  bare, 
And  only  scattered  pottery  tells  that  arts   and 

trade  were  there, 
And  looking  towards  the  Alban  Mount  across  the 

solemn  plains, 
The  ground  on  which  we  stand  is  all  of  Veii  that 

remains. 
A  hundred  thousand  people  once  dwelt  upon  this 

hill, 
Within    their  many-towered   walls   the    hum  was 

never  still. 
The  sculptor  and  the  armorer  worked  as  soon  as 

it  was  light, 

175 


176       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

And  watchman  unto  watchman  called  through  all 

the  starry  night. 
They  had  laws,  and  arts,  and  customs,  and  altars 

to  revere; 
They  buried  with  a  solemn  care  the  dead  whom 

they  held  dear, 

Whom  they  crowned  with  golden  ivy  and  with  oak- 
leaves  never  sere. 
And  the  city  on  the  hill-top  where  this  people  had 

their  home 
Was  a  larger  town  than  Athens  and  a  mightier 

town  than  Rome. 
A  wondrous  place  is  Veii,  and  the  grandeur  of  her 

past 
Will  linger  in  these  solitudes  and  crown  her  to  the 

last. 
Still  I  see  her  in  a  vision,  though  her  very  streets 

are  ploughed, 
See  the  faces  of  her  people,  hear  the  voices  of  her 

crowd, 
See  the  waving  of  her  banners,  hear  the  tramp 

of  armed  men, 
Where  nothing  but  the  waterfall  is  dashing  down 

the  glen. 

Other  cities  have  their  columned  hills  and  frag- 
ments of  their  walls, 
Or   at  least  their  ruined  temples,   on  which  the 

moonlight  falls. 


VEH  177 

Other   cities  have  their  solemn   sights,  to  which 

the  pilgrim  turns, 
And  some  altar  of  tradition  where  a  lamp  forever 

burns, 

A  ballad  or  a  legend,  or  a  few  memorial  stones, 
And  a  breath  of  living  history  to  reanimate  their 

bones. 
But   of  Veii,   strong  and  beautiful,  these   silent 

stones  are  all, 
Save  her  graves  within  the  hillside  and  a  patch 

of  ruined  wall, 
And  the  rocks  cut  sheer  to  guard  her,  and  the 

streams  that  flow  the  same, 
And   (foreign  to  the  pilgrim's  lips)   the  accents 

of  her  name ! 

BESSIE  RAYNER  PARKES. 


ROME 


ROME 

EVANDER  then,  Rome's  earliest  founder,  spoke : 
"These  groves   were  once  by  native  Fauns   and 

Nymphs 

Inhabited,  and  men  who  took  their  birth 
From  tough  oak-trunks.     No  settled  mode  of  life 
Had  they,  nor  culture;  nor  knew  how  to  yoke 
Their  steers,  or  heap  up  wealth,  or  use  their  stores 
With  frugal  hands ;  but  the  rough  chase  supplied 
Their  food,  or  boughs   of  trees.     Then   Saturn 

came 

From  high  Olympus,  fleeing  before  Jove. 
An  exile  from  the  kingdoms  he  had  lost. 
This  stubborn  race  through  mountain  wilds  dis- 
persed 

He  brought  together,  and  to  them  gave  laws ; 
And  called  the  region  Latium,  since  he  had  lurked 
In  safety  on  its  shores.     Beneath  his  reign 
The  golden  age,  so  called,  was  seen.     In  peace 
He  ruled  his  people;  till  by  gradual  steps 
There  came  a  faded  and  degenerate  age, 
And  love  of  war  succeeded,  and  of  gain. 
Then  came  Ausonians  and  Sicanians; 

178 


ROME  179 

And  oft  the  name  Saturnia  was  changed. 
Then  kings  succeeded,  and  the  form  immense 
Of  rugged  Thybris,  from  whom  came  the  name 
Tiber ;  while  that  of  Albula  was  lost. 
Me,  from  my  country  driven  to  lands  remote, 
Chance  and  inevitable  fate  have  placed 
Upon  these  shores ;  the  nymph  Carmentis  too, 
My  mother,  urging  me  with  warnings  dread, 
And  great  Apollo  who  first  prompted  me." 

Then  moving  onward,  he  an  altar  shows, 
And  gate,  which  now  the  name  Carmental  bears 
In  Rome;  an  old  revered  memorial 
Of  the  prophetic  nymph  who  first  foretold 
The  future  heroes  of  ^Eneas'  line, 
And  noble  Pallanteum;  next,  the  grove 
Points  out,  which  Romulus  the  Asylum  named ; 
Then  the  Lupercal  cool  beneath  the  rocks, 
Named  after  Pan,  by  old  Arcadian  wont ; 
And  Argiletum's  grove  he  shows,  and  tells 
Of  Argus'  death,  his  guest ;  and  calls  the  spot 
To  witness,  he  was  guiltless  of  the  deed. 
Then  on  to  the  Tarpeian  rock  he  leads 
The  way,  and  to  the  Capitol,  now  decked 
With  gold,  then  rough  with  bushes  wild. 
E'en  then  the  dark  religion  of  the  place 
Haunted  the  timorous  peasants  with  vague  fears. 
"Within  this  grove,  upon  this  wooded  hill," 
He  said,  "some  deity  his  dwelling  made; 


180       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

But  who  or  what,  none  knows.    The  Arcadians 
Think  they  have  seen  great  Jove  himself,  when  oft 
With  his  right  hand  he  shook  his  darkening  shield, 
And  called  his  clouds  around  him.     Yon  two  towns 
With  ruined  walls  thou  seest,  the  relics  old 
And  monuments  of  ancient  days :  this  one 
Was  reared  by  Janus,  that  by  Saturn  built ; 
Saturnia  and  Janiculum  their  names." 

VIRGIL. 
Tr.  C.  P.  Cranch. 


ROME 

HE  brought  our  Saviour  to  the  western  side 
Of  that  high  mountain,  whence  he  might  behold 
Another  plain,  long,  but  in  breadth  not  wide, 
Washed  by  the  southern  sea ;  and,  on  the  north, 
To  equal  length  backed  with  a  ridge  of  hills, 
That  screened  the  fruits  of  the  earth,  and  seats  of 

men, 

From  cold  Septentrion  blasts ;  thence  in  the  midst 
Divided  by  a  river,  of  whose  banks 
On  each  side  an  imperial  city  stood, 
With  towers  and  temples  proudly  elevate 
On  seven  small  hills,  with  palaces  adorned, 
Porches,  and  theatres,  baths,  aqueducts, 
Statues,  and  trophies,  and  triumphal  arcs, 


ROME  181 

Gardens,  and  groves,  presented  to  his  eyes, 
Above  the  height  of  mountains  interposed : 
(By  what  strange  parallax,  or  optic  skill 
Of  vision,  multiplied  through  air,  or  glass 
Of  telescope,  were  curious  to  inquire,) 
And  now  the  Tempter  thus  his  silence  broke : — 
"The  city,  which  thou  seest,  no  other  deem 
Than  great  and  glorious  Rome,  queen  of  the  earth, 
So  far  renowned,  and  with  the  spoils  enriched 
Of  nations :  there  the  Capitol  thou  seest, 
Above  the  rest  lifting  his  stately  head 
On  the  Tarpeian  rock,  her  citadel 
Impregnable ;  and  there  Mount  Palatine, 
The  imperial  palace,  compass  huge,  and  high 
The  structure,  skill  of  noblest  architects, 
With  gilded  battlements  conspicuous  far, 
Turrets,  and  terraces,  and  glittering  spires : 
Many  a  fair  edifice  besides,  more  like 
Houses  of  gods,  (so  well  I  have  disposed 
My  aery  microscope,)  thou  mayst  behold, 
Outside  and  inside  both,  pillars  and  roofs, 
Carved  work,  the  hand  of  famed  artificers, 
In  cedar,  marble,  ivory,  or  gold. 

JOHN  MILTON, 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


ROME 

O  ROME  !  my  country !  city  of  the  soul ! 

The  orphans  of  the  heart  must  turn  to  thee, 

Lone  mother  of  dead  empires !  and  control 

In  their  shut  breasts  their  petty  misery. 

What  are  our  woes  and  sufferance?    Come  and 

see 

The  cypress,  hear  the  owl,  and  plod  your  way 
O'er  steps  of  broken  thrones  and  temples,  ye 
Whose  agonies  are  evils  of  a  day, — 
A  world  is  at  our  feet  as  fragile  as  our  clay. 

The  Niobe  of  nations !  there  she  stands, 
Childless  and  crownless,  in  her  voiceless  woe ; 
An  empty  urn  within  her  withered  hands, 
Whose  holy  dust  was  scattered  long  ago. 
The  Scipio's  tomb  contains  no  ashes  now ; 
The  very  sepulchres  lie  tenantless 
Of  their  heroic  dwellers ;  dost  thou  flow, 
O  Tiber,  through  a  marble  wilderness  ? 
Rise,  with  thy  yellow  waves,  and  mantle  her  dis- 
tress. 

The  Goth,  the  Christian,  time,  war,  flood?  and 

fire, 

Have  dealt  upon  the  seven-hilled  city's  pride : 
She  saw  her  glories  star  by  star  expire, 


ROME  183 

And  up  the  steep  barbarian  monarchs  ride, 
Where  the  car  climbed  the  Capitol ;  far  and  wide 
Temple  and  tower  went  down,  nor  left  a  site. 
Chaos  of  ruins !  who  shall  trace  the  void, 
O'er  the  dim  fragments  cast  a  lunar  light, 
And  say,  "Here  was,  or  is,"  where  all  is  doubly 
night  ? 

The  double  night  of  ages,  and  of  her, 
Night's  daughter,  Ignorance,  hath  wrapt,  and 

wrap 

All  round  us ;  we  but  feel  our  way  to  err : 
The  ocean  hath  its  chart,  the  stars  their  map,v 
And  knowledge  spreads  them  on  her  ample  lap ; 
But  Rome  is  as  the  desert,  where  we  steer 
Stumbling  o'er  recollections ;  now  we  clap 
Our  hands,  and  cry,  "Eureka !"  it  is  clear, — 
When  but  some  false  mirage  of  ruin  rises  near. 

Alas,  the  lofty  city !  and  alas, 
The  trebly  hundred  triumphs !  and  the  day 
When  Brutus  made  the  dagger's  edge  surpass 
The  conqueror's  sword  in  bearing  fame  away! 
Alas  for  Tully's  voice  and  Virgil's  lay 
And  Livy's  pictured  page!     But  these  shall  be 
Her  resurrection ;  all  beside — decay. 
Alas  for  Earth,  for  never  shall  we  see 
That  brightness  in  her  eye  she  bore  when  Rome 
was  free !  LORD  BYRON. 


184t       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

ROME 

"Ir  ever  I  in  Rome  should  dwell, — 
Rome,  the  desired  of  all  my  heart, — 

Amidst  that  world  loved  long  and  well, 
The  infinite  world  of  ancient  art ; 

"And  there,  by  graves  so  dear  to  fame, 

A  dreaming  poet,  cast  my  lot ; 
What  voice  within  would  whisper  shame, 

Were  England  and  her  needs  forgot !" 

So  to  myself,  with  museful  mouth, 
I  said  long  since,  the  while  I  paced, 

With  heart  that  trembled  towards  the  south, 
Through  London's  coiled  and  stony  waste. 

How  doubly  dreary  seemed  the  smoke, 
The  sunless  noon,  the  starless  even, 

When  o'er  my  dream  a  vision  broke, — 
Italy!  or  the  courts  of  Heaven! 

Now,  walking  on  this  Pincian  Hill, 
And  watching  where  the  day  declines 

(Gilding  the  Cross  of  Peter  still) 
By  Monte  Mario's  fringe  of  pines, 

Almost,  I  think,  the  heart  might  grow 

Forgetful  of  its  earlier  ties, 
And  all  its  life-blood  learn  to  flow 

Familiar  with  Italian  skies. 


ROME  185 

Not  with  the  love  of  brain  or  soul, 
But  with  that  fiery  strength  we  use 

In  leaning  towards  the  strong  control 
Of  what  we  must,  not  what  we  choose. 

As  mother  for  child,  as  wife  for  spouse, 
As  one  long  exiled  yearns  for  home, 

As  sinner  for  the  Heavenly  House, 
So  yearned,  so  loved  I  thee,  O  Rome! 

Now  I  have  seen  thee, — seen  the  plains, 
The  desolate  plains  where  thou  dost  lie ; 

Where  many  a  rock-built  tomb  complains 
Of  some  great  name  or  race  gone  by, 

And  past  the  walls  that  round  thee  sweep 
Have  daily  ridden, — walls  sublime! 

Which  girdle  in  thy  power,  and  keep 
Inviolate  from  the  hands  of  Time. 

Just  touched  and  softened  by  decay, 
Each  gate  some  glorious  year  recalls ; 

Kings!    Consuls!    Emperors!    Saints   were  they 
Who  mile  by  mile  linked  walls  to  walls. 

All  ancient  cities,  though  great  they  be 
(And  London  counts  by  tens  of  tens), 

Seem  pygmy  towns  compared  to  thee ; 
While  Lincoln,  throned  amidst  her  fens, 


186       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

And  York  upon  her  meadow-side 

(A  thousand  milestones  on  her  road), 

Are  footprints,  just  to  show  the  stride 
With  which  the  giant  Csesar  strode ! 

Yet  here,  where  Csesar  lies  in  state, 

Amidst  the  cypress  and  the  rose, 
A  lovelier  mountain  mourns  his  fate, 

A  nobler  river  swiftlier  flows. 

0  starlit  streets  of  ancient  Rome, 
Baptized  in  blood  of  Christian  men ! 

Happy  the  hearts  that  call  ye  home, 
And  feet  that  toward  ye  turn  again ! 

1  oft  in  dreams  shall  seem  to  see 

Hills  where  the  olive  and  the  vine 
Fall  rippling  down  to  meet  the  sea ; 
Or  underneath  the  branching  pine 

Shall  watch  the  storm-clouds  sweeping  by, 
Down  from  the  Alban  Mount  in  swirls, 

And,  blackening  all  the  vaulted  sky, 

Rush  tangling  through   our  sculptor's   curls. 

Ah !  not  too  distant  fall  that  day 

When  I,  a  pilgrim  far  from  home, 
Shall  hear  upon  the  Aurelian  Way, 

"Allans,  postilion,  vite!  a  Rome." 

BESSIE  RAYNER  PARKES. 


ROME  187 


DREAMS  IN  ROME 

WHAT  is  it  that  sings  a  sleepy  tune  in  my  head? 
Some  faint  old  unforgotten  moon  that  is  dead? 
I  will  arise,  for  the  dreams  are  about  my  bed. 


O  is  it  in  vain,  is  it  in  vain  I  have  come? 
Dark  was  the  road  in  coming,  and  white  the  foam. 
Is  there  no  rest  for  me  here?  are  there  dreams  in 
Rome? 

ARTHUR  SYMONS. 


ROMA 

RIPE  hours  there  be  that  do  anticipate 
The  heritage  of  death,  and  bid  us  see, 
As  from  the  vantage  of  eternity, 

The  shadow-symbols  of  historic  fate. 

Swift  through  the  gloom  each  mournful  chariot 

rolls, 

Dim  shapes  of  empire  urge  the  flying  steeds, 
Featured  with  man's  irrevocable  deeds, 

Robed  with  the  changeful  passions  of  men's  souls. 


188       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Ethereal  visions  pass  serene  in  prayer, 
Their  eyes  aglow  with  sacrificial  light; 
Phantoms  of  creeds  long  dead,  their  garments 
bright, 

Drip  red  with  blood  of  torture  and  despair. 

In  such  an  hour  my  spirit  did  behold 

A  woman  wonderful.    Unnumbered  years 
Left  in  her  eyes  the  beauty  born  of  tears, 

And  full  they  were  of  fatal  stories  old. 

The  trophies  of  her  immemorial  reign 

The  shadowy  great  of  eld  beside  her  bore ; 
A  broidery  of  ancient  song  she  wore, 

And  the  glad  muses  held  her  regal  train. 

Still  hath  she  kingdom  o'er  the  souls  of  men ; 

Dear  is  she  always  in  her  less  estate. 

The  sad,  the  gay,  the  thoughtful,  on  her  wait, 
Praising  her  evermore  with  tongue  and  pen. 

Stately  her  ways  and  sweet,  and  all  her  own ; 
As  one  who  has  forgotten  time  she  lives, 
Loves,  loses,  lures  anew,  and  ever  gives, — 

She  who  all  misery  and  all  joy  hath  known. 

If  thou  wouldst  see  her,  as  the  twilight  fails, 
Go  forth  along  the  ancient  street  of  tombs, 
And  when  the  purple  shade  divinely  glooms 

High  o'er  the  Alban  hills,  and  night  prevails, 


ROME  189 

If  then  she  is  not  with  thee  while  the  light 

Glows  over  roof  and  column,  tower  and  dome, 
And  the  dead  stir  beneath  thy  feet,  and  Rome 

Lies  in  the  solemn  keeping  of  the  night, — 

If  then  she  be  not  thine,  not  thine  the  lot 
Of  those  some  angel  rescues  for  an  hour 
From  earth's  mean  limitations,  granting  power 

To  see  as  man  may  see  when  time  is  not. 
SILAS  WEIR  MITCHELL. 


ROME  UNVISITED 

THE  corn  has  turned  from  grey  to  red, 
Since  first  my  spirit  wandered  forth 
From  the  dear  cities  of  the  north, 

And  to  Italians  mountains  fled. 

And  here  I  set  my  face  towards  home, 
For  all  my  pilgrimage  is  done, 
Although,  methinks  yon  blood-red  sun 

Marshals  the  way  to  Holy  Rome. 

O  Blessed  Lady,  who  dost  hold 
Upon  the  seven  hills  thy  reign! 
O  Mother  without  blot  or  stain, 

Crowned  with  bright  crowns  of  triple  gold! 


190       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

O  Roma,  Roma,  at  thy  feet 

I  lay  this  barren  gift  of  song! 
For,  ah !  the  way  is  steep  and  long 

That  leads  unto  thy  sacred  street. 

OSCAR  WILDE. 


ROME 

ROME,  on  thine  air  I  cast  my  soul  adrift, 
To  soar  sublime ;  do  thou,  O  Rome,  receive 
This  soul  of  mine  and  flood  it  with  thy  light. 

Not  curiously  concerned  with  little  things 
To  thee  I  come ;  who  is  there  that  would  seek 

For  butterflies  beneath  the  Arch  of  Titus? 

****** 

Do  thou  but  shed  thine  azure  round  me,  Rome, 

Illumine  me  with  sunlight ;  all-divine 

Are  the  sun's  rays  in  thy  vast  azure  spaces. 

They  bless  alike  the  dusky  Vatican, 

The  beauteous  Quirinal,  and  ancient  there 

The  Capitol,  amongst  all  ruins  holy. 

And  from  thy  seven  hills  thou  stretchest  forth 
Thine  arms,  O  Rome,  to  meet  the  love  diffused, 
A  radiant  splendour,  through  the  quiet  air. 


ROME  191 

The  solitudes  of  the  Campagna  form 

That  nuptial-couch ;  and  thou,  O  hoar  Soratte, 

Thou  art  the  witness  in  eternity. 

O  Alban  Mountains,  sing  ye  smilingly 
The  epithalamium ;  green  Tusculum 
Sing  thou ;  and  sing,  O  fertile  Tivoli ! 

Whilst  I  from  the  Janiculum  look  down 
With  wonder  on  the  city's  pictured  form — 
A    mighty    ship,    launched    toward    the    world's 
dominion. 

O  ship,  whose  poop  rising  on  high  attains 
The  infinite,  bear  with  thee  on  thy  passage 
My  soul  unto  the  shores  of  mystery! 

Let  me,  when  fall  those  twilights  radiant 
With  the  white  jewels  of  the  coming  night, 
Quietly  linger  on  the  Flaminian  Way ; 

Then  may  the  hour  supreme,  in  fleeing,  brush 
With  silent  wing  my  forehead,  while  I  pass 
Unknown  through  this  serenity  of  peace, 

Pass  to  the  Councils  of  the  Shades,  and  see 
Once  more  the  lofty  spirits  of  the  Fathers 
Conversing  there  beside  the  sacred  river. 

GIOSUE  CARDUCCI. 

Tr.  M.  W.  Arms. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


ROME 

A  HIGH  and  naked  square,  a  lonely  palm ; 

Columns  thrown  down,  a  high  and  lonely  tower ; 

The  tawny  river,  ominously  fouled ; 

Cypresses  in  a  garden,  old  with  calm ; 

Two    monks    who    pass    in    white,    sandaled    and 

cowled ; 

Empires  of  glory  in  a  narrow  hour 
From  sunset  unto  starlight,  when  the  sky 
Wakened  to  death  behind  St.  Peter's  dome: 
That,  in  an  eyelid's  lifting,  you  and  I 
Will  see  wherever  any  man  says  "Rome." 

ARTHUR  SYMONS. 


HILLS  OF  ROME 

SHE,  whose  high  top  above  the  starres  did  sore, 
One  f  oote  on  Thetis,  th'  other  on  the  Morning, 
One  hand  on  Scythia,  th'  other  on  the  More, 
Both  heaven  and  earth  in  roundnesse  compassing ; 
love  fearing,  least  if  she  should  greater  growe, 
The  Giants  old  should  once  againe  uprise, 
Her  whelm'd  with  hills,  these  Seven  Hills,  which  be 

nowe 
Tombes   of  her  greatnes   which   did  threate   the 

skies : 


ROME  193 

Upon  her  head  he  heapt  Mount  Saturnal 
Upon  her  bellie  th'  antique  Palatine, 
Upon  her  stomacke  laid  Mount  Quirinal, 
On  her  left  hand  the  noysome  Esquiline, 

And  Caelian  on  the  right :  but  both  her  feete 
Mount  Viminal  and  Aventine  doo  meete. 

JOACHIM  DU  BELLAY. 
Tr.  Edmund  Spenser. 


MONTE  CAVALLO. 

YE,  too,  marvellous  twain,  that  erect  on  the  Monte 

Cavallo 
Stand  by  your  rearing  steeds  in  the  grace  of  your 

motionless  movement, 
Stand  with  your  upstretched  arms  and  tranquil 

regardant  faces, 

Stand  as  instinct  with  life  in  the  might  of  immuta- 
ble manhood, — 
O  ye  mighty  and  strange,  ye  ancient  divine  ones 

of  Hellas, 
Are  ye  Christian  too?  to  convert  and  redeem  and 

renew  you, 
Will  the  brief  form  have  sufficed,  that  a  pope  has 

set  up  on  the  apex 
Of  the   Egyptian   stone   that   o'ertops   you,   the 

Christian  symbol? 


194       THEOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

And  ye,  silent,  supreme  in  serene  and  victorious 

marble, 
Ye  that  encircle  the  walls  of  the  stately  Vatican 

chambers, 
Juno  and  Ceres,  Minerva,  Apollo,  the  Muses  and 

Bacchus, 
Ye  unto  whom  far  and  near  come  posting  the 

Christian  pilgrims, 
Ye  that  are  ranged  in  the  halls  of  the  mystic 

Christian  pontiff, 
Are  ye  also  baptised?  are  ye  of  the  Kingdom  of 

Heaven  ? 
Utter,  O  some  one,  the  word  that  shall  reconcile 

Ancient  and  Modern ! 
Am  I  to  turn  me  for  this  unto  thee,  great  Chapel 

of  Sixtus? 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 


THE  C^ELIAN  HILL 

Or  all  the  seven  which  Rome  doth  boast, 
(Fair  hills  and  nobly  crowned !) 

I  love  the  Caelian  Hill  the  most, 
And  think  it  holy  ground. 

'T  was  here  the  deacon  Laurence  died, 
And  here  was  Gregory's  cell ; 

The  heart  by  honors  sorely  tried 
Remembered  it  right  well ; — - 


ROME  195 

And  as  his  pious  envoys  bore 

The  British  cross  on  high, 
He,  like  a  sailor  turned  from  shore, 

Looked  backward  with  a  sigh, 

And  though  he  held  within  his  hand 

The  Church  from  east  to  west, 
He  thought  of  all  the  Christian  land 

This  Caelian  Hill  the  best. 

I  cannot  tell,  I  know  not  why, 

But  Rome  from  thence  doth  wear 

Peculiar  brightness  in  the  sky 
And  beauty  in  the  air. 

A  dreamy  light  is  in  the  trees, 
The  winding  walks  are  still, 
And  quietly  the  perfumed  breeze 
.  Creeps  o'er  the  Caslian  Hill. 

As  tranquil  convents  faintly  chime 

The  passing  hours  of  prayer, 
They  give  the  only  hints  that  time 

Has  marked  its  progress  there. 

The  martyr's  home,  the  saint's  retreat. 

Have  filled  the  place  with  rest, 
The  centuries  with  silent  feet 

Have  touched  its  leafy  crest ; 


196       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

And  Gregory,  rising  from  his  sleep, 
Himself  would  scarcely  know 

That  past  of  his  was  buried  deep 
A  thousand  years  ago ! 

BESSIE  RAYNER  PARKES. 


THE  RUINES  OF  ROME 


THOU  stranger,  which  for  Rome  in  Rome  here 

seekest, 

And  nought  of  Rome  in  Rome  perceivst  at  all, 
These  same  olde  walls,  olde  arches,  which  thou 

seest, 

Olde  palaces,  is  that  which  Rome  men  call. 
Beholde  what  wreake,  what  ruine,  and  what  wast, 
And  how  that  she,  which  with  her  mightie  powre 
Tam'd  all  the  world,  hath  tam'd  herself  e  at  last ; 
The  pray  of  Time,  which  all  things  doth  devowre ! 
Rome  now  of  Rome  is  th'  onely  funerall, 
And  onely  Rome  of  Rome  hath  victorie ; 
Ne  ought  save  Tyber  hastning  to  his  fall 
Remaines  of  all :  O  worlds  inconstancie ! 
That  which  is  firme  doth  flit  and  fall  away, 
And  that  is  flitting  doth  abide  and  stay. 


ROME  197 

II 

These  heapes  of  stones,  these  old  wals,  which  ye 

see, 

Were  first  enclosures  but  of  salvage  soyle ; 
And  these  brave  pallaces,  which  maystred  bee 
Of  Time,  were  shepheards  cottages  somewhile. 
Then  tooke  the  shepheards  kingly  ornaments, 
And  the  stout  hynde  arm'd  his  right  hand  with 

steele : 

Eftsoones  their  rule  of  yearely  Presidents 
Grew  great,   and  sixe  months   greater   a   great 

deele ; 

Which,  made  perpetuall,  rose  to  so  great  height, 
That  thence  th'  Imperiall  Eagle  rooting  tooke, 
Till  th'  heaven  it  selfe,  opposing  gainst  her  might, 
Her  power  to  Peters  successor  betooke ; 

Who,  shepheardlike,  (as  Fates  the  same  fore- 
seeing,) 

Doth  shew  that  all  things  turne  to  their  first 
being. 

Ill 

O  that  I  had  the  Thracian  Poets  harpe, 
For  to  awake  out  of  th'  infernall  shade 
Those  antique  Caesars,  sleeping  long  in  darke, 
The  which  this  auncient  Citie  whilome  made ! 
Or  that  I  had  Amphions  instrument, 
To  quicken,  with  his  vitall  notes  accord. 
The  stonie  ioynts  of  these  old  walls  now  rent, 
By  which  th'  Ausonian  light  might  be  restor'd ! 


198       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Or  that  at  l£ast  I  could,  with  pencill  fine, 
Fashion  the  pourtraicts  of  these  palacis, 
By  paterae  of  great  Virgils  spirit  divine ! 
I  would  assay  with  that  which  in  me  is, 
To  builde,  with  levell  of  my  lof  tie  style, 
That  which  no  hands  can  evermore  compyle. 
JOACHIM  DU  BELLAY. 
Tr.  Edmund  Spenser. 


THE  COLISEUM 

AND  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran, 
In  murmured  pity,  or  loud-roared  applause, 
As  man  was  slaughtered  by  his  fellow-man. 
And  wherefore  slaughtered?     Wherefore,  but 

because 

Such  were  the  bloody  Circus'  genial  laws, 
And  the  imperial  pleasure.    Wherefore  not  ? 
What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  the  maws 
Of  worms, — on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot? 
Both  are  but  theatres  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 


I  see  before  me  the  Gladiator  lie : 
He  leans  upon  his  hand, — his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 
And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low, — 
And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow: 


ROME  199 

From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one. 
Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower ;  and  now 
The  arena  swims  around  him :  he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hailed  the 
wretch  who  won. 

He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not:  his  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away ; 
He  recked  not  of  the  life  he  lost  nor  prize, 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
There  was  their  Dacian  mother, — he,  their  sire, 
Butchered  to  make  a  Roman  holiday, — 
All  this  rushed  with  his  blood. — Shall  he  expire, 
And  unavenged? — Arise!  ye  Goths,  and  glut  your 
ire! 

But  here,  where  murder  breathed  her  bloody 
steam ; 

And  here,  where  buzzing  nations  choked  the 
ways, 

And  roared  or  murmured  like  a  mountain- 
stream 

Dashing  or  winding  as  its  torrent  strays ; 

Here,  where  the  Roman  million's  blame  or  praise 

Was  death  or  life,  the  playthings  of  a  crowd, 

My  voice  sounds  much, — and  fall  the  stars' 
faint  rays 

On  the  arena  void, — seats  crushed,  walls  bowed, 


200       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

And    galleries,     where    my     steps     seem    echoes 
strangely  loud. 

A  ruin, — yet  what  ruin !  from  its  mass 
Walls,  palaces,  half-cities,  have  been  reared ; 
Yet  oft  the  enormous  skeleton  ye  pass, 
And     marvel     where     the     spoil     could     have 

appeared. 

Hath  it  indeed  been  plundered,  or  but  cleared? 
Alas !  developed,  opens  the  decay, 
When  the  colossal  fabric's  form  is  neared : 
It  will  not  bear  the  brightness  of  the  day, 
Which  streams  too  much  on  all  years,  man,  have 

reft  away. 

But  when  the  rising  moon  begins  to  climb 
Its  topmost  arch,  and  gently  pauses  there; 
When  the  stars  twinkle  through  the  loops  of 

time, 

And  the  low  night-breeze  waves  along  the  air, 
The  garland-forest,  which  the  gray  walls  wear, 
Like  laurels  on  the  bald  first  Caesar's  head ; 
When   the   light   shines    serene,  but   doth  not 

glare, 

Then  in  this  magic  circle  raise  the  dead: 
Heroes  have  trod  this  spot,  'tis  on  their  dust  ye 

tread. 

"While  stands  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  stand ; 
When  falls  the  Coliseum,  Rome  shall  fall ; 


ROME  201 

And  when  Rome  falls — the  World."    From  our 

own  land 

Thus  spake  the  pilgrims  o'er  this  mighty  wall 
In  Saxon  times,  which  we  are  wont  to  call 
Ancient ;  and  these  three  mortal  things  are  still 
On  their  foundations,  and  unaltered  all; 
Rome  and  her  Ruin  past  Redemption's  skill, 
The  world — the   same  wide   den — of  thieves,  or 

what  ye  will. 
***** 

Arches  on  arches !  as  it  were  that  Rome, 
Collecting  the  chief  trophies  of  her  line, 
Would  build  up  all  her  triumphs  in  one  dome, 
Her  Coliseum  stands ;  the  moonbeams  shine 
As  't  were  its  natural  torches,  for  divine 
Should   be   the   light   which   streams   here,   to 

illume 

This  long-explored  but  still  exhaustless  mine 
Of  contemplation ;  and  the  azure  gloom 
Of  an  Italian  night,  where  the  deep  skies  assume 

Hues  which  have  words,  and  speak  to  ye  of 

heaven, 

Floats  o'er  this  vast  and  wondrous  monument, 
And  shadows  forth  its  glory.    There  is  given 
Unto  the  things  of  earth,  which  Time  hath  bent, 
A  spirit's  feeling,  and  where  he  hath  leant 
His  hand,  but  broke  his  scythe,  there  is  a  power 
And  magic  in  the  ruined  battlement, 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

For  which  the  palace  of  the  present  hour 
Must  yield  its  pomp,  and  wait  till  ages  are  its 
dower.  LORD  BYRON. 


THE  COLISEUM 

TYPE  of  the  antique  Rome !   Rich  reliquary 

Of  lofty  contemplation  left  to  Time 

By  buried  centuries  of  pomp  and  power ! 

At  length,  at  length,  after  so  many  days 

Of  weary  pilgrimage  and  burning  thirst 

(Thirst  for  the  springs  of  lore  that  in  thee  lie), 

I  kneel,  an  altered  and  an  humble  man, 

Amid  thy  shadows,  and  so  drink  within 

My  very  soul  thy  grandeur,  gloom,  and  glory ! 

Vastness,  and  age,  and  memories  of  eld ! 

Silence,  and  desolation,  and  dim  night ! 

I  feel  ye  now, — I  feel  ye  in  your  strength, — 

O  spells  more  sure  than  e'er  Judaean  king 

Taught  in  the  gardens  of  Gethsemane ! 

O  charms  more  potent  than  the  rapt  Chaldee 

Ever  drew  down  from  out  the  quiet  stars ! 

Here,  where  a  hero  fell,  a  column  falls ! 

Here,  where  the  mimic  eagle  glared  in  gold, 

A  midnight  vigil  holds  the  swarthy  bat ! 

Here,  where  the  dames  of  Rome  their  gilded  hair 

Waved  to  the  wind,  now  wave  the  reed  and  thistle ! 


ROME  £03 

Here,  where  on  golden  throne  the  monarch  lolled, 
Glides,  spectre-like,  unto  his  marble  home, 
Lit  by  the  wan  light  of  the  horned  moon, 
The  swift  and  silent  lizard  of  the  stones ! 

But  stay !  these  walls,  these  ivy-clad  arcades, 
These  mouldering  plinths,  these  sad  and  blackened 

shafts, 

These  vague  entablatures,  this  crumbling  frieze, 
These  shattered  cornices,  this  wreck,  this  ruin, 
These  stones, — alas!  these  grey  stones, — are  they 

all, 

All  of  the  famed  and  the  colossal  left 
By  the  corrosive  hours  to  fate  and  me? 
"Not  all,"  the  echoes  answer  me, — "not  all! 
Prophetic  sounds  and  loud  arise  forever 
From  us  and  from  all  ruin  unto  the  wise, 
As  melody  from  Memnon  to  the  sun. 
We  rule  the  hearts  of  mightiest  men,  we  rule 
With  a  despotic  sway  all  giant  minds. 
We  are  not  impotent, — we  pallid  stones. 
Not  all  our  power  is  gone,  not  all  our  fame, 
Not  all  the  magic  of  our  high  renown, 
Not  all  the  wonder  that  encircles  us, 
Not  all  the  mysteries  that  in  us  lie, 
Not  all  the  memories  that  hang  upon 
And  cling  around  about  us  as  a  garment, 
Clothing  us  in  a  robe  of  more  than  glory." 

EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 


204s       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


THE  ARCH  OF  TITUS 

I  STOOD  beneath  the  Arch  of  Titus  long ; 

On  Hebrew  forms  there  sculptured  long  I  pored; 

Till  fancy,  by  a  distant  clarion  stung, 

Woke;    and    methought    there   moved    that    arch 

toward 

A  Roman  triumph.       Lance  and  helm  and  sword 
Glittered;  white  coursers  tramped  and  trumpets 

rung: 

Last  came,  car-borne  amid  a  captive  throng, 
The  laurelled  son  of  Rome's  imperial  lord. 
As  though  by  wings  of  unseen  eagles  fanned 
The  Conqueror's  cheek,  when  first  that  arch  he 

saw, 

Burned  with  the  flush  he  strove  in  vain  to  quell. 
Titus !  a  loftier  arch  than  thine  hath  spanned 
Rome  and  the  world  with  empery  and  law ; 
Thereof  each  stone  was  hewn  from  Israel ! 

AUBREY  DE  VERB. 


THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  OBELISK 

HOMEWARD  turning  from  the  music  which  had  so 

entranced  my  brain, 
That  the  way  I  scarce  remembered  to  the  Pincian 

Hill  again, — 


ROME  205 

Nay,  was  willing  to  forget  it  underneath  a  moon 

so  fair, 
In  a  solitude  so  sacred,  and  so  summer-like  an 

air, — 
Came  I  to  the   side  of  Tiber,  hardly  conscious 

where  I  stood, 
Till  I  marked  the  sullen  murmur  of  the  venerable 

flood. 

Rome  lay  doubly  dead  around  me,  sunk  in  silence 

calm  and  deep: 
'T  was  the  death  of  desolation,  and  the  mighty 

one  of  sleep. 
Dreams  alone,  and  recollections,  peopled  now  the 

solemn  hour, 
Such  a  spot  and  such  a  season  well  might  wake 

the  Fancy's  power; 
Yet  no   monumental   fragment,   storied   arch,   or 

temple  vast, 
Mid  the  mean  plebeian  buildings  loudly  whispered 

of  the  Past. 

Tethered  by  the  shore,  some  barges  hid  the  wave's 
august  repose; 

Petty  sheds  of  humble  merchants  nigh  the  Cam- 
pus Martius  rose; 

Hardly  could  the  dingy  Thamis,  when  his  tide  is 
ebbing  low, 

Life's  dull  scene  in  colder  colours  to  the  homesick 
exile  show. 


£06       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Winding  from  the  vulgar  prospect,  through  a 
labyrinth  of  lanes, 

Forth  I  stepped  upon  the  Corso  where  its  great- 
ness Rome  retains. 

Yet  it  was  not  ancient  glory,  though  the  midnight 
radiance  fell 

Soft  on  many  a  princely  mansion,  many  a  dome's 
majestic  swell; 

Though,  from  some  hushed  corner  gushing,  oft  a 
modern  fountain  gleamed, 

Where  the  marble  and  the  waters  in  their  fresh- 
ness equal  seemed: 

What  though  open  courts  unfolded  columns  of 
Corinthian  mould? 

Beautiful  it  was, — but  altered !  naught  bespake  the 
Rome  of  old. 

So,  regardless  of  the  grandeur,  passed  I  towards 
the  Northern  Gate; 

All  around  were  shining  gardens,  churches  glitter- 
ing, yet  sedate; 

Heavenly  bright  the  broad  enclosure !  but  the  o'er- 
whelming  silence  brought 

Stillness  to  mine  own  heart's  beating,  with  a  mo- 
ment's truce  of  thought, 

And  I  started  as  I  found  me  walking,  ere  I  was 
aware, 

O'er  the  Obelisk's  tall  shadow,  on  the  pavement  of 
the  square. 


ROME  207 

Ghost-like  seemed  it  to  address  me,  and  conveyed 
me  for  a  while, 

Backward,  through  a  thousand  ages,  to  the  bor- 
ders of  the  Nile; 

Where,  for  centuries,  every  morning  saw  it  creep- 
ing long  and  dun, 

O'er  the  stones  perchance  of  Memphis,  or  the  City 
of  the  Sun. 

Kingly  turrets  looked  upon  it,  pyramids  and 
sculptured  fanes ; 

Towers  and  palaces  have  mouldered,  but  the  shad- 
ow still  remains. 

Out  of  that  lone  tomb  of  Egypt,  o'er  the  seas  the 

trophy  flew; 
Here  the  eternal  apparition  met  the  millions'  daily 

view. 
Virgil's  foot  has  touched  it  often,  it  hath  kissed 

Octavia's  face, — 
Royal  chariots  have  rolled  o'er  it,  in  the  frenzy  of 

the  race, 
When  the  strong,  the  swift,  the  valiant,  mid  the 

thronged  arena  strove, 
In  the  days  of  good  Augustus  and  the  dynasty  of 

Jove. 

Herds  are  feeding  in  the  Forum,  as  in  old  Evan- 

der's  time; 
Tumbled  from  the  steep  Tarpeian  all  the  towers 

that  sprang  sublime. 


£08       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Strange  that  what  seemed  most  inconstant  should 

the  most  abiding  prove; 
Strange  that  what  is  hourly  moving  no  mutation 

can  remove: 
Ruined  lies  the  cirque !  the  chariots,  long  ago,  have 

ceased  to  roll* — 
Even  the  Obelisk  is  broken, — but  the  shadow  still 

is  whole. 

What  is  Fame!  if  mightiest  empires  leave  so  little 

mark  behind, 
How  much  less  must  heroes  hope  for,  in  the  wreck 

of  humankind! 
Less   than   even   this   darksome  picture,   which   I 

tread  beneath  my  feet, 
Copied  by  a  lifeless  moonbeam  on  the  pebbles  of 

the  street; 
Since,  if  Caesar's  best  ambition,  living,  was  to  be 

renowned, 
What  shall  Caesar  leave  behind  him  save  the  shadow 

of  a  sound? 

THOMAS  WILLIAM  PAESONS. 


THE  PILLAR  OF  TRAJAN 

WHERE  towers  are  crushed,  and  unf orbidden  weeds 
O'er  mutilated  arches  shed  their  seeds, 
And  temples,  doomed  to  milder  change,  unfold 
A  new  magnificence  that  vies  with  old, 


ROME  209 

Firm  in  its  pristine  majesty  hath  stood 

A  votive  column,  spared  by  fire  and  flood; 

And,  though  the  passions  of  man's  fretful  race 

Have  never  ceased  to  eddy  round  its  base, 

Not  injured  more  by  touch  of  meddling  hands 

Than  a  lone  obelisk,  mid  Nubian  sands 

Or  aught  in  Syrian  deserts  left  to  save 

From  death  the  memory  of  the  good  and  brave. 

Historic  figures  round  the  shaft  embost 

Ascend,  with  lineaments  in  air  not  lost : 

Still  as  he  turns,  the  charmed  spectator  sees 

Group  winding  after  group,  with  dream-like  ease; 

Triumphs  in  sun-bright  gratitude  displayed, 

Or  softly  stealing  into  modest  shade. 

So,  pleased  with  purple  clusters  to  entwine 

Some  lofty  elm-tree,  mounts  the  daring  vine; 

The  woodbine  so,  with  spiral  grace,  and  breathes 

Wide-spreading  odors  from  her  flowery  wreaths. 

Borne  by  the  Muse  from  rills  in  shepherds'  ears 
Murmuring  but  one  smooth  story  for  all  years, 
I  gladly  commune  with  the  mind  and  heart 
Of  him  who  thus  survives  by  classic  art, 
His  actions  witness,  venerate  his  mien, 
And  study  Trajan  as  by  Pliny  seen; 
Behold  how  fought  the  chief  whose  conquering 

sword 

Stretched  far  as  earth  might  own  a  single  lord ; 
In  the  delight  of  mortal  prudence  schooled, 


210       THEOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

How  feelingly  at  home  the  sovereign  ruled ; 
Best  of  the  good, — in  pagan  faith  allied 
To  more  than  man,  by  virtue  deified. 

Memorial  pillar !  mid  the  wrecks  of  time 
Preserve  thy  charge  with  confidence  sublime, — 
The  exultations,  pomps,  and  cares  of  Rome, 
Whence   half   the  breathing   world   received   its 

doom: 

Things  that  recoil  from  language ;  that,  if  shown 
By  apter  pencil,  from  the  light  had  flown. 
A  pontiff,  Traj  an  here  the  gods  implores, 
There  greets  an  embassy  from  Indian  shores: 
Lo !  he  harangues  his  cohorts, — there  the  storm 
Of  battle  meets  him  in  authentic  form! 
Unharnessed,  naked  troops  of  Moorish  horse 
Sweep  to  the  charge ;  more  high,  the  Dacian  force, 
To  hoof  and  finger  mailed ; — yet,  high  or  low, 
None  bleed,  and  none  lie  prostrate  but  the  foe ; 
In  every  Roman,  through  all  turns  of  fate, 
Is  Roman  dignity  inviolate; 
Spirit  in  him  pre-eminent,  who  guides, 
Supports,  adorns,  and  over  all  presides; 
Distinguished  only  by  inherent  state 
From  honored  instruments  that  round  him  wait; 
Rise  as  he  may,  his  grandeur  scorns  the  test 
Of  outward  symbol,  nor  will  deign  to  rest 
On  aught  by  which  another  is  deprest. 
Alas !  that  one  thus  disciplined  could  toil 


ROME 

To  enslave  whole  nations  on  their  native  soil; 

So  emulous  of  Macedonian  fame, 

That,  when  his  age  was  measured  with  his  aim, 

He  drooped,  mid  else  unclouded  victories, 

And  turned  his  eagles  back  with  deep-drawn  sighs. 

O  weakness  of  the  great!  O  folly  of  the  wise! 

Where  now  the  haughty  empire  that  was  spread 
With  such  fond  hope?    Her  very  speech  is  dead; 
Yet  glorious  Art  the  power  of  Time  defies, 
And  Trajan  still,  through  various  enterprise, 
Mounts,  in  this  fine  illusion,  toward  the  skies : 
Still  are  we  present  with  the  imperial  chief, 
Nor  cease  to  gaze  upon  the  bold  relief, 
Till  Rome,  to  silent  marble  unconfined, 
Becomes  with  all  her  years  a  vision  of  the  mind. 
WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


THE  CORSO:  THE  ROMAN  CARNIVAL. 

WHO  can  forget  thy  Carnival,  Rome,  thy  Carnival 
flashing 

Joy  and  life  through  thy  solemn  streets  ?  Ah,  sea- 
son when  Pleasure 

Day  after  day  its  kaleidoscope  turned  of  bright 
robes  and  bright  faces ; 

Rain  of  confetti  and  snowing  of  flowers  from  win- 
dow to  window; 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Tumult  of  chatter  and  laughter,  glances  of  youths 
and  of  maidens, 

While  their  exchanges  of  flowers  and  bonbons  be- 
neath the  balconies 

Made  the  heart  flutter  with  dreams  of  a  world  too 
sweet  for  possession. 

Then  the  masking,  the  tricoloured  plumes  in  the 
broad  black  sombrero ; 

Blouses  and  harlequins  battling  like  boys  in  a  snow- 
balling frolic; 

While  the  thronged  Corso  scarce  opened  a  way  for 
the  carriages  passing. 

Wild  was  the  revelry, — counting  no  hours  from 

noontide  till  nightfall ; 
Till,  as  behind  the  solemn  old  palaces  dropped  the 

last  sunbeam, 
Boomed  the  loud  cannon  that  cleared  the  carriages 

off  in  an  instant. 
Then  came  the  cavalry  making  an  opening  amid 

the  thronged  faces, 
Down  from  the  Piazza  del  Popolo  on  to  the  Palace 

Venetian : 
Then  the  mad  race  of  the  riderless  horses,  and 

shouts  of  the  people 
Ended  each  many-hued  day.     Young  hearts  grew 

weary  of  pleasure. 

Tired  feet  trod  upon  flowers  that  lay  on  the  pave- 
ment neglected, 


ROME  213 

And  the  soiled  maskers  trailed  heavily  homeward 

their  fanciful  trappings. 
Silent  the  stars  shone  down  on  the  narrow  streets, 

and  the  watchman 
Dozed  in  his  corner  and  dreamed  of  the  coming 

delights  of  the  morrow. 

Can  I  forget  the  wild  masque-ball  at  the  brilliant 

Teatro? 
Dominoes,  white,  black,  and   red,  all  thronging 

and  jostling  each  other: 
Men  dark-bearded  and  women  in  costumes  as  fair 

as  Sultanas, 

Every  one  free  as  the  wind,  by  fashion's  conven- 
tions untrammelled, 
All  borne  away  for  the  moment,  and  chasing  the 

butterfly  Pleasure, 
Till  the  stars  faded  and  set  in  the  cold  grey  light 

of  the  morning. 
Then,  last  of  all,  like  a  candle  that  flares  at  its 

death  in  the  socket, 
Burst  on  the  night  the  bewildering  blaze  of  the 

wild  Moccoletti, — 
Flashed  in  the  windows  from  palace  to  palace  the 

swift  'llumination, 
Flashed  in  the  street,  on  foot  and  in  carriage  each 

man  and  each  woman 
Bearing  aloft  from  all  reach  their  torches,  with 

breath  or  with  flapper 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Striving  to  keep  their  own  and  to  put  out  the 

lights  of  their  neighbours, 
While  Senza  Moccolo,  Moccolo!  all  through  the 

Corso  resounded. 

Can  I  forget  thee,  Rome,  at  this  season  of  inno- 
cent pleasure? 

Now  when  I  see  how  the  tyrants  have  caught  thee 
and  ruffled  thy  plumage, — 

Clipped  the  gay  pinions  which  once  every  year 
thou  spreadest  in  frolic ; 

Forced  thee  to  laugh,  when  the  bitterest  scorn 
should  have  answered  their  meddling ; 

Forced  thee  to  take  thy  harp  from  the  willows 
and  sing  at  their  bidding, 

When  thou  shouldst  call  down  the  lightning  of 
heaven  to  blast  thy  oppressors ! 

Patience!  the  day  hastens  onward.  Thunder- 
clouds on  the  horizon 

Rumble  and  will  not  rest.  Beneath  the  thrones  a 
volcano 

Moans,  not  in  vain ;  and  the  hour  must  come  when 
the  forces  electric, 

Justice  and  Freedom  and  Truth,  no  longer  can 
slumber  inactive. 

Then  shall  thy  children  exult  in  a  jubilee  holier, 
grander, 

And  thy  brief  carnival  pleasures  seem  but  the 
sport  of  a  schoolboy 


ROME  215 

To  the  true  freedom  that  then  shall  crown  thee 
with  blessing  and  honour ! 

CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH. 


THE  SCALINATA 

I 

IN  Rome  there  is  a  glorious  flight  of  stone, 
Great  steps,  as  leading  to  a  giant's  throne, 
Or  to  a  temple  of  Titanic  gods ; 
This  marvellous  height,  up  which  the  pilgrim  plods 
Breathless  half-way,  seems  like  a  stairway  tracked 
By  myriad  feet  of  some  wild  cataract; 
Like  those  where  Nilus,  with  his  flag  of  spray, 
Leads  his  wild  Abyssinian  floods  away. 

Below  this  giant  stairway,  in  the  square, 
There  springs  a  cooling  murmur  in  the  air ; 
The  liquid  music  of  a  tinkling  rill ; 
A  stolen  Naiad  from  the  Sabine  hill. 
Still  singing,  in  captivity,  the  lay 
Learned  on  her  native  mountains  far  away. 

In  middle  of  this  fount  a  marble  barge 
Sits  overflowing  with  its  crystal  charge ; 
Its  light  mast  liquid  silver  in  the  sun ; 
Its  viewless  rowers  singing  every  one 


216       THBOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Until, — so  feigns  the  fancy, — warmly  dark, 
Great  Egypt  sails  in  the  fantastic  bark ; 
Melting  in  languors  of  her  own  heart's  heat, 
A  tame,  bright  leopard  cushioning  her  feet ! 
But  here,  with  swelling  heart  and  lordly  mien, 
The  stately  swan  of  Avon  swims  between. 

Crowning  the  flight,  a  porphyry  column  stands 
Dark  as  the  sphinx  above  the  desert  sands ; 
Solemn  as  prophecy  it  points  the  sky, 
Propounding  its  dim  riddle  to  the  eye ; 
And  it  has  seen,  with  look  as  calm  as  Fate's, 
On  Nile  and  Tiber,  the  imperial  states 
Rise  nobly,  and  fall  basely ;  and  there  still 
Waits  for  new  wonders,  silent  on  yon  hill. 

II 

In  Rome  there  is  a  glorious  flight  of  stone, 
Terrace  o'er  terrace  rising,  like  that  shown 
To  dreaming  Jacob,  climbing,  till  on  high 
The  last  broad  platform  nobly  gains  the  sky. 
On  this  great  stairway  what  are  these  I  see? 
Ascending  and  descending !    They  should  be 
Angels  with  spotless  mantles  and  white  wings. 
But,  look  again:  those  sad,  misshapen  things, 
They  scarce  seem  human !    Where  they  crawl  and 

lay 

Their  tattered  misery  in  the  stranger's  way, 
Filling  the  air  with  simulated  sighs, 


ROME  217 

Weeping  for  bread  with  imsuffused  eyes. 
Would  they  did  weep,  indeed !    for,  stung  to  tears 
Then  were  there  hope  where  now  no  hope  appears. 
But  such  the  melting  influence  of  the  place, 
That  one  there  was, — most  abject  of  his  race ; 
A  whining  trunk, — deprived  of  every  gift 
Save  his  misfortune ;  but  with  this  did  lift 
Himself  to  such  a  height  of  wealth  and  power, 
That  many  a  Roman  noble  at  this  hour 
Envies  his  hoard,  and  many  a  sinking  name 
The  beggar's  usurious  gold  still  keeps  from  shame. 

Here  the  brown  Sabines,  in  their  gay  attires, 
Whose  eyes  still  kindle  with  ancestral  fires, 
Bring  down  their  mountain  graces  to  the  mart, 
And  wait  for  bread  on  the  demands  of  Art. 
There  Belisarius,  with  his  patriarch  hair, 
Sits  blind  and  hungry.    A  Lucretia  there 
Winds  her  light  distaff.     Young  Endymion  here 
Sleeps,  as  in  Latmos.    Yonder,  drawing  near, 
The  original  of  many  a  picture  moves, 
And  many  a  statue  which  the  world  approves. 
There  sits  the  mother,  with  her  soft,  brown  eyes 
Bent  o'er  the  face  which  on  her  bosom  lies ; 
Enough  of  mingled  wonder,  pride,  and  trust, 
To  call  the  hand  of  Raphael  from  the  dust. 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


ST.  PETER'S 

BUT  lo !  the  dome, — the  vast  and  wondrous  dome, 
To  which  Diana's  marvel  was  a  cell, — 
Christ's  mighty  shrine  above  his  martyr's  tomb ! 
I  have  beheld  the  Ephesian's  miracle, — 
Its  columns  strew  the  wilderness,  and  dwell 
The  hyena  and  the  jackal  in  their  shade; 
I  have  beheld  Sophia's  bright  roofs  swell 
Their  glittering  mass  i'  the  sun,  and  have  sur- 
veyed 

Its    sanctuary    the    while   the    usurping   Moslem 
prayed. 

But  thou,  of  temples  old,  or  altars  new, 
Standest  alone,  with  nothing  like  to  thee, — 
Worthiest  of  God,  the  holy  and  the  true. 
Since  Zion's  desolation,  when  that  he 
Forsook  his  former  city,  what  could  be 
Of  earthly  structures,  in  his  honour  piled, 
Of  a  sublimer  aspect?    Majesty, 
Power,    glory,    strength,    and  beauty,    all   are 

aisled 
In  this  eternal  ark  of  worship  undefiled. 

Enter:  its  grandeur  overwhelms  thee  not; 
And  why?  It  is  not  lessened ;  but  thy  mind, 
Expanded  by  the  genius  of  the  spot, 


ROME 

Has  grown  colossal,  and  can  only  find 
A  fit  abode  wherein  appear  enshrined 
Thy  hopes  of  immortality;  and  thou 
Shalt  one  day,  if  found  worthy,  so  defined, 
See  thy  God  face  to  face,  as  thou  dost  now 
His  holy  of  holies,  nor  be  blasted  by  his  brow. 


Thou  movest,  but  increasing  with  the  advance, 
Like  climbing  some  great  Alp,  which  still  doth 

rise, 

Deceived  by  its  gigantic  elegance; 
Vastness  which  grows,  but  grows  to  harmonise, 
All  musical  in  its  immensities  ; 
Rich    marble,    richer    painting,    shrines    where 

flame 
The  lamps  of  gold,  and  haughty  dome  which 

vies 
In  air  with  earth's  chief  structures,  though  their 

frame 
Sits  on  the  firm-set  ground,  and  this  the  clouds 

must  claim. 

Thou  seest  not  all;  but  piecemeal  thou  must 

break, 

To  separate  contemplation,  the  great  whole; 
And  as  the  ocean  many  bays  will  make, 
That  ask  the  eye,  so  here  condense  thy  soul 
To  more  immediate  objects,  and  control 
Thy  thoughts  until  thy  mind  hath  got  by  heart 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Its  eloquent  proportions,  and  unroll 
In  mighty  graduations,  part  by  part, 
The  glory  which  at  once  upon  thee  did  not  dart. 

Not  by  its  fault,  but  thine.     Our  outward  sense 
Is  but  of  gradual  grasp,  and  as  it  is 
That  what  we  have  of  feeling  most  intense 
Outstrips  our  faint  expression,  even  so  this 
Outshining  and  o'erwhelming  edifice 
Fools  our  fond  gaze,  and,  greatest  of  the  great, 
Defies  at  first  our  nature's  littleness, 
Till,  growing  with  its  growth,  we  thus  dilate 
Our  spirits  to  the  size  of  that  they  contemplate. 

LORD  BYRON. 


THE  ILLUMINATIONS  OF  ST.  PETER'S 

I 

FIRST  ILLUMINATION 

TEMPLE  !  where  Time  has  wed  Eternity, 
How  beautiful  thou  art  beyond  compare, 
Now  emptied  of  thy  massive  majesty, 
And  made  so  faery-frail,  so  faery-fair : 
The  lineaments  that  thou  art  wont  to  wear 
Augustly  traced  in  ponderous  masonry, 
Lie  faint  as  in  a  woof  of  filmy  air, 
Within  their  frames  of  mellow  jewelry. 


ROME 

But  yet  how  sweet  the  hardly  waking  sense, 
That  when  the  strength  of  hours  has  quenched 

those  gems, 

Disparted  all  those  soft-bright  diadems, 
Still  in  the  sun  thy  form  will  rise  supreme 
In  its  own  solid,  clear  magnificence, — 
Divinest  substance  then,  as  now  divinest  dream 


II 


SECOND  ILLUMINATION 

My  heart  was  resting  with  a  peaceful  gaze, 
So  peaceful  that  it  seemed  I  well  could  die 
Entranced  before  such  beauty,  when  a  cry 
Burst  from  me,  and  I  sunk  in  dumb  amaze: 
The  molten  stars  before  a  withering  blaze 
Paled  to  annihilation,  and  my  eye, 
Stunned  by  the  splendour,  saw  against  the  sky 
Nothing  but  light, — sheer  light, — and  light's  own 

haze. 

At  last  that-giddying  sight  took  form,  and  then 
Appeared  the  stable  vision  of  a  crown, 
From  the  black  vault  by  unseen  power  let  down, 
Cross-topped,  thrice  girt  with  flame : 

Cities  of  men, 

Queens  of  the  earth !  bow  low, — was  ever  brow 
Of  mortal  birth  adorned  as  Rome  is  now? 

LORD  HOUGHTON. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


ST.  JOHN  LATERAN 

OF  TEMPLES  built  by  mortal  hands, 
Give  honour  to  the  Lateran  first; 

'T  was  here  the  hope  of  many  lands, — 
The  infant  Church — was  nursed; 

And  grew  unto  a  great  estate, 

And  waxed  strong  in  grace  and  power, 

With  Christ  for  head  and  faithful  mate, 
And  learning  for  her  dower. 

Since  first  this  house  to  him  was  raised, 
Three  times  five  hundred  years  have  run; 

For  this  let  Constantine  be  praised, 
An  English  mother's  son! 

He  with  his  own  imperial  sword 

Did  dig  foundations  broad  and  deep, 

That  henceforth  in  his  hand  the  Lord 
Rome  and  her  hills  should  keep. 

In  after  ages,  one  by  one, 

Arose  the  altars  vowed  to  Heaven ; 

Each  crest  is  sacred  now,  but  none 
Like  this  of  all  the  Seven ! 

Behold  she  stands!    The  Mother  Church! 

A  queen  among  her  countless  peers ! 
Ah !  open  be  that  sacred  porch 

For  thrice  five  hundred  years! 

BESSIE  RAYNER  PARKES. 


ROME 


THE  PANTHEON 

SIMPLE,  erect,  severe,  austere,  sublime,  — 
Shrine  of  all  saints,  and  temple  of  all  gods, 
From  Jove  to  Jesus,  —  spared  and  blest  by  time  ; 
Looking  tranquillity,  while  falls  or  nods 
Arch,  empire,  each  thing  round  thee,  and  man 

plods 
His   way   through   thorns   to    ashes,  —  glorious 

dome! 
Shalt  thou  not  last?  Time's  scythe  and  tyrants' 

rods 

Shiver  upon  thee,  —  sanctuary  and  home 
Of  art  and  piety,  —  Pantheon  !  —  pride  of  Rome  ! 

Relic  of  nobler  days  and  noblest  arts  ! 
Despoiled  yet  perfect,  with  thy  circle  spreads 
A  holiness  appealing  to  all  hearts,  — 
To  art  a  model;  and  to  him  who  treads 
Rome  for  the  sake  of  ages,  Glory  sheds 
Her  light  through  thy  sole  aperture;  to  those 
Who  worship,  here  are  altars  for  their  beads  ; 
And  they  who  feel  for  genius  may  repose 
Their  eyes  on  honoured  forms,  whose  busts  around 
them  close. 

LORD  BYRON. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


ARA  CGELI. 

WHOEVER  will  go  to  Rome  may  see, 

In  the  chapel  of  the  Sacristy 

Of  Ara-Coeli,  the  Sainted  Child,— 

Garnished  from  throat  to  foot  with  rings 

And  brooches  and  precious  offerings, 

And  its  little  nose  kissed  quite  away 

By  dying  lips.     At  Epiphany, 

If  the  holy  winter  day  prove  mild, 

It  is  shown  to  the  wondering,  gaping  crowd 

On  the  church's  steps, — held  high  aloft, — 

While  every  sinful  head  is  bowed, 

And  the  music  plays,  and  the  censer's  soft 

White  breath  ascends  like  silent  prayer. 

Many  a  beggar  kneeling  there, 

Tattered  and  hungry,  without  a  home, 

Would  not  envy  the  Pope  of  Rome, 

If  he,  the  beggar,  had  half  the  care 

Bestowed  on  him  that  falls  to  the  share 

Of  yonder  Image, — for  you  must  know 

It  has  its  minions  to  come  and  go, 

Its  perfumed  chamber,  remote  and  still, 

Its  silken  couch,  and  its  jewelled  throne, 

And  a  special  carriage  of  its  own 

To  take  the  air  in,  when  it  will. 

And  though  it  may  neither  drink  nor  eat, 

By  a  nod  to  its  ghostly  seneschal 


ROME  225 

It  could  have  the  choicest  wine  and  meat. 
Often  some  princess,  brown  and  tall, 
Comes,  and  unclasping  from  her  arm 
The  glittering  bracelet,  leaves  it,  warm 
With  her  throbbing  pulse,  at  the  Baby's  feet. 
Ah,  He  is  loved  by  high  and  low, 
Adored  alike  by  simple  and  wise. 
The  people  kneel  to  Him  in  the  street. 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


THE  STEPS  OF  AHA  CCELI 

A  ladder,  realler,  dearer 
Than  that  to  the  patriarch  known ; 
A  stair  whose  every  stone 
Leads  one  to  Heaven  nearer. 

For  this  divine,  aerial 
Fabric  the  architect 
Searched  Nature  to  select 
The  grandest  of  material. 

Marbles,  in  ancient  time 
Unrivalled,  he  took  as  a  token, — 
Which  mattocks  blind  had  broken 
Intent  on  nought  but  lime. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Which  now  will  never  salute  us 
From  the  gleaming  shrine  of  the  god, 
Or  from  the  pavement  trod 

By  the  feet  of  the  Gracchi  and  Brutus. 
*  *  *  #  * 

But  in  spite  of  the  cavalieros 

And  the  rabble  that  worship  the  doll — 

As  at  the  capitol — 

Lo !  the  mounting  shades  of  the  heroes ! 

SULLY  PRUDHOMME. 
Tr.  Robert  Haven  Schauffler. 


THE  VATICAN 

OR,  TURNING  to  the  Vatican,  go  see 

Laocoon's  torture  dignifying  pain, — 

A  father's  love  and  mortal's  agony 

With  an  immortal's  patience  blending:  vain 

The  struggle ;  vain,  against  the  coiling  strain 

And    gripe,    and    deepening    of    the    dragon's 

grasp, 

The  old  man's  clench ;  the  long  envenomed  chain 
Rivets  the  living  links, — the  enormous  asp 
Enforces  pang  on  pang,  and  stifles  gasp  on  gasp. 

Or  view  the  lord  of  the  unerring  bow, 
The  god  of  life  and  poesy  and  light, — 


ROME 

The  sun  in  human  limbs  arrayed,  and  brow 

All  radiant  from  its  triumph  in  the  fight ; 

The   shaft    hath   just    been    shot, — the    arrow 

bright 

With  an  immortal's  vengeance ;  in  his  eye 
And  nostril  beautiful  disdain  and  might 
And  majesty  flash  their  full  lightnings  by, 
Developing  in  that  one  glance  the  deity. 

But  in  his  delicate  form — a  dream  of  love, 
Shaped  by  some  solitary  nymph,  whose  breast 
Longed  for  a  deathless  lover  from  above, 
And  maddened  in  that  vision — are  exprest 
All  that  ideal  beauty  ever  blessed 
The  mind  within  its  most  unearthly  mood, 
When  each  conception  was  a  heavenly  guest, — 
A  ray  of  immortality, — and  stood, 
Starlike,  around,  until  they  gathered  to  a  god! 

And  if  it  be  Prometheus  stole  from  Heaven 
The  fire  which  we  endure,  it  was  repaid 
By  him  to  whom  the  energy  was  given 
Which  this  poetic  marble  hath  arrayed 
With  an  eternal  glory, — which  if  made 
By  human  hands,  is  not  of  human  thought ; 
And  Time  himself  hath  hallowed  it,  nor  laid 
One  ringlet  in  the  dust, — nor  hath  it  caught 
A  tinge  of  years,  but  breathes  the  flame  with  which 
't  was  wrought.  LORD  BYRON. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


EASTER  DAY 

THE  silver  trumpets  rang  across  the  Dome : 
The  people  knelt  upon  the  ground  with  awe: 
And  borne  upon  the  necks  of  men  I  saw, 

Like  some  great  God,  the  Holy  Lord  of  Rome. 

Priest-like,  he  wore  a  robe  more  white  than  foam, 
And,  king-like,  swathed  himself  in  royal  red, 
Three  crowns  of  gold  rose  high  upon  his  head: 

In  splendour  and  in  light  the  Pope  passed  home. 

My  heart  stole  back  across  wide  wastes  of  years 
To  One  who  wandered  by  a  lonely  sea, 

And  sought  in  vain  for  any  place  of  rest: 

"Foxes  have  holes,  and  every  bird  its  nest, 
I,  only  I,  must  wander  wearily, 

And    bruise  my  feet,   and  drink  wine   salt  with 
tears."  OSCAR  WILDE. 


TWO  GRAVES  AT  ROME 

SAINTS  and  Csesars  are  here, 
Bishops  of  Rome  and  the  world, 
Rulers  by  love  and  by  fear, — 
Those  who  in  purple  and  gold 
Pranked  and  lorded  it  here ; 
Those  who  in  sackcloth  and  shame 
Elected  their  limbs  to  enfold, 


ROME  229 

Scornful  of  pleasure  and  fame: 
Ah,  they  had  their  reward ! 
There  is  something  else  that  I  seek 

On  the  flowery  sward, 
By  the  pile  of  Cestius  here ! 

Is  it  but  two  stones  like  the  rest 
Fondly  preserving  a  name 
Elsewhere  unheeded  of  fame, 
Set  here  by  love,  and  left 
To  gather  grey,  like  the  rest? 
— Psha!     'T  is  the  fate  of  man! 
We  are  wretched,  we  are  bereft 
Of  all  that  gave  life  its  plan, 
The  sunbeam  and  treasure  of  yore; 
We  lay  it  in  earth  and  are  )gone; 

Then,  as  before, 
We  laugh  and  forget  like  the  rest. 

A  transient  name  on  the  stone,  • 

A  transient  love  in  the1  heart ; 

We  have  our  day  and  are  gone: 

But  it  is  not  so  with  these — 

There  is  life  and  love  in  the  stone ; 

Names  of  beauty  and  light, 

Over  all  lands  and  seas 

They  have  gone  forth  in  their  might ; 

Warmer  and  higher 'beats 

The  general  heart  at  the  words 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


Shelley  and  Keats : 
There  is  life  and  love  in  the  stone ! 


He  with  the  gleaming  eyes 
And  glances  gentle  and  wild, 
The  angel  eternal  child; 
His  heart  could  not  throb  like  ours, 
He  could  not  see  with  our  eyes 
Dimmed  with  the  dulness  of  earth, 
Blind  with  the  bondage  of  hours ; 
Yet  none  with  diviner  mirth 
Hailed  what  was  noble  and  sweet; 
The  blood-tracked  journey  of  life, 

The  way-sore  feet, 
None  have  watched  with  more  human  eyes. 

And  he  who  went  first  to  the  tomb, — 
Rejoice,  great  souls  of  the  dead! 
For  none  in  that  earlier  Rome 
Took  a  bolder  and  lordlier  heart 
To  the  all-receiving  tomb: 
No  richer,  more  equable  eye, 
No  tongue  of  more  musical  art 
Conversed  with  the  gods  on  high, 
Among  all  the  minstrels  who  made 
Sweetness  'tween  Etna  and  Alp; 

Nor  was  any  laid 
With  such  music  and  tears  in  the  tomb. 


ROME 

What  seek  ye,  my  comrades  at  Rome? 

To  see  and  be  seen  at  the  gay 

Meet  on  the  Appian  Way, 

Or  within  the  tall  palace  at  eve 

To  dance  out  your  season  at  Rome? 

To  muse  on  the  giants  of  old, 

In  the  Forum  at  twilight  to  grieve? 

It  is  more  than  these  ruins  enfold ! 

Warmer  and  higher  beats 

The  Englishman's  heart  at  the  words 

Shelley  and  Keats! 

And  here  is  the  heart  of  our  Rome. 

FRANCIS  TURNER  PALGRAVE. 


FROM  "LOVE  IN  ITALY" 

UNDER  the  shadow  of  our  pyramid, 

Rome's  thought  of  Egypt, — dearest,  there  are  hid 

Two  graves  of  English  poets.     I  have  heard 

That  no  celestial  song  of  love  or  loss 

That  Italy  gave  birth  to  could  outvie 

Their  rapture  whom  death  gave  to  Italy. 

So  here  three  ages  meet :  the  imperial  word 

Of  nations  sunk  in  night  still  sounds  across 

The  tide  of  years,  to  tell  the  spirit's  life 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Through  the  poor  form's  decay.     Not  otherwise 
These  verses  that  I  sing  to  thee  are  rife 
With  visions  Adam  dreamed  in  Paradise 
And  hopes  that  herald  in  the  Eternal  Day : 
Hearts  turn  to  dust, — Love  changes  not  alway. 
JOHN  HALL  INGHAM. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  KEATS 

RID  OF  the  world's  injustice,  and  hisipain, 
He  rests  at  last  beneath  God's  veil  of  blue : 
Taken  from  life  when  life  and  love  were  new 

The  youngest  of  the  martyrs  here  is  lain, 

Fair  as  Sebastian,  and  as  early  slain. 

No  cypress  shades  his  grave,  no  funeral  yew, 
But  gentle  violets  weeping  with  the  dew 

Weave  on  his  bones  an  ever-blossoming  chain. 

O  proudest  heart  that  broke  for  misery ! 
O  sweetest  lips  since  those  of  Mitylene! 

O  poet-painter  of  our  English  land ! 

Thy  name  was  writ  in  water — it  shall  stand : 

And  tears  like  mine  will  keep  thy  memory  green, 
As  Isabella  did  her  Basil-tree. 

OSCAE  WILDE. 


ROME 


THE  GRAVE  OF  KEATS 

THE  PEOTESTANT  CEMETERY  AT  EOME 

"Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water" 

FAIR  little  city  of  the  pilgrim  dead, 

Dear  are  thy  marble  streets,  thy  rosy  lanes : 

Easy  it  seems  and  natural  here  to  die, 

And  death  a  mother,  who  with  tender  care 

Doth  lay  to  sleep  her  ailing  little  ones. 

Old  are  these  graves,  and  they  who,  mournfully, 

Saw  dust  to  dust  return,  themselves  are  mourned ; 

Yet,  in  green  cloisters  of  the  cypress  shade 

Full-choired  chants  the  fearless  nightingale 

Ancestral    songs     learned    when    the    world    was 

young. 

Sing  on,  sing  ever  in  thy  breezy  homes ; 
Toss  earthward  from  the  white  acacia  bloom 
The  mingled  joy  of  fragrance  and  of  song; 
Sing  in  the  pure  security  of  bliss. 
These  dead  concern  thee  not,  nor  thee  the  fear 
That  is  the  shadow  of  our  earthly  loves. 
And  me  thou  canst  not  comfort ;  tender  hearts 
Inherit  here  the  anguish  of  the  doubt 
Writ  on  this  gravestone.    He,  at  least,  I  trust, 
Serenity  of  sure  attainment  knows. 
The  night  falls,  and  the  darkened  verdure  starred 
With  pallid  roses  shuts  the  world  away. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Sad  wandering   souls   of   song,   frail  ghosts   of 

thought 

That  voiceless  died,  the  massing  shadows  haunt, 
Troubling  the  heart  with  unfulfilled  delight. 
The  moon  is  listening  in  the  vault  of  heaven, 
And,  like  the  airy  beat  of  mighty  wings, 
The  rhythmic  throb  of  stately  cadences 
Inthralls  the  ear  with  some  high-measured  verse, 
Where  ecstasies  of  passion-nurtured  words 
For  great  thoughts  find  a  home,  and  fill  the  mind 
With  echoes  of  divinely  purposed  hopes 
That  wore  on  earth  the  death-pall  of  despair. 
Night  darkens  round  me.     Never  more  in  life 
May  I,  companioned  by  the  friendly  dead, 
Walk  in  this  sacred  fellowship  again ; 
Therefore,  thou  silent  singer  'neath  the  grass, 
Still  sing  to  me  those  sweeter  songs  unsung, 
"Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone," 
Caressing  thought  with  wonderments  of  phrase 
Such  as  thy  springtide  rapture  knew  to  win. 
Ay,  sing  to  me  thy  unborn  summer  songs. 
And  the  ripe  autumn  lays  that  might  have  been ; 
Strong  wine  of  fruit  mature,  whose  flowers  alone 
we  know. 

SILAS  WEIR  MITCHELL. 


ROME  235 


THE  GRAVE  OF  SHELLEY 

LIKE  burnt-out  torches  by  a  sick  man's  bed 

Gaunt    cypress-trees    stand    round    the    sun- 
bleached  stone; 
Here  doth  the  little  night-owl  make  her  throne, 

And  the  slight  lizard  show  his  jeweled  head. 

And,  where  the  chaliced  poppies  flame  to  red, 
In  the  still  chamber  of  yon  pyramid 
Surely  some  old-world  Sphinx  lurks  darkly  hid, 

Grim  warder  of  this  pleasaunce  of  the  dead. 

Ah!  sweet  indeed  to  rest  within  the  womb 
Of  Earth,  great  mother  of  eternal  sleep, 

But  sweeter  far  for  thee  a  restless  tomb 
In  the  blue  cavern  of  an  echoing  deep, 

Or  where  the  tall  ships  founder  in  the  gloom 
Against  the  rocks  of  some  wave-shattered  steep. 

OSCAR  WILDE. 


PONTE  SUBLICIO 

BUT,  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 
Have  manfully  been  plied; 

And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 
Above  the  boiling  tide. 


236       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

"Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius !" 
Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all ; 

"Back,  Lartius !  back,  Herminius ! 
Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall !" 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius, 

Herminius  darted  back; 
And  as  they  passed  beneath  their  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 
But  when  they  turned  their  faces, 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone, 

They  would  have  crossed  once  more ; 

But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 

Fell  every  loosened  beam, 
And  like  a  dam  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream: 
And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 

Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 
As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 

Was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 

And  like  a  horse  unbroken 
When  first  he  feels  the  rein, 

The  furious  river  struggled  hard 
And  tossed  his  tawny  mane, 

And  burst  the  curb,  and  bounded, 
Rejoicing  to  be  free; 


ROME  237 

And  whirling  down  in  fierce  career 
Battlement  and  plank  and  pier, 
Rushed  headlong  to  the  sea. 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind; 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 
"Down  with  him !"  cried  false  Sextus, 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face; 
"Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars  Porsena, 

"Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace." 

Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  craven  ranks  to  see; 
Naught  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  naught  spake  he ; 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome: 

"O  Tiber!  Father  Tiber! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day !" 
So  he  spake,  and,  speaking,  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  his  side, 
And  with  his  harness  on  his  back 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 


£38       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 

Was  heard  from  either  bank ; 
But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank ; 
And  when  above  the  surges 

They  saw  his  crest  appear, 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current, 

Swollen  high  by  months  of  rain: 
And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing ; 

And  he  was  sore  in  pain, 
And  heavy  with  his  armor, 

And  spent  with  changing  blows ; 
And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking, 

But  still  again  he  rose. 

Never,  I  ween,  did  swimmer, 

In  such  an  evil  case, 
Struggle  through  such  a  raging  flood 

Safe  to  the  landing-place : 
But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 

By  the  brave  heart  within, 
And  our  good  Father  Tiber 

Bare  bravely  up  his  chin. 


ROME  239 

"Curse  on  him !"  quoth  false  Sextus ; 

"Will  not  the  villain  drown? 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 

We  should  have  sacked  the  town !" 
"Heaven  help  him !"  quoth  Lars  Porsena 

"And  bring  him  safe  to  shore ; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 

Was  never  seen  before." 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom ; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands ; 
Now  round  him  throng  the  Fathers 

-To  press  his  gory  hands ; 
And  now  with  shouts  and  clapping, 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 
He  enters  through  the  river-gate, 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land, 

That  was  a  public  right, 
As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plough  from  morn  till  night; 
And  they  made  a  molten  image, 

And  set  it  up  on  high, 
And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 

To  witness  if  I  lie. 

It  stands  in  the  Comitium, 
Plain  for  all  folk  to  see; 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Horatius  in  his  harness, 

Halting  upon  one  knee: 
And  underneath  is  written, 

In  letters  all  of  gold, 
How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY. 


TWO  IN  THE  CAMPAGNA 

I  WONDER  do  you  feel  to-day 

As  I  have  felt,  since,  hand  in  hand, 

We  sat  down  on  the  grass  to  stray 
In  spirit  better  through  the  land, 

This  morn  of  Rome  and  May  ? 

For  me,  I  touched  a  thought,  I  know, 

Has  tantalised  me  many  times, 
(Like  turns  of  thread  the  spiders  throw 

Mocking  across  our  path)  for  rhymes 
To  catch  at  and  let  go. 

Help  me  to  hold  it :  first  it  left 

The  yellowing  fennel,  run  to  seed 

There,  branching  from  the  brickwork's  cleft, 
Some  old  tomb's  ruin ;  yonder  weed 

Took  up  the  floating  weft, 


ROME 

Where  one  small  orange  cup  amassed 

Five  beetles,  —  blind  and  green  they  grope 

Among  the  honey-meal,  —  and  last 
Everywhere  on  the  grassy  slope 

I  traced  it.     Hold  it  fast! 

The  champaign  with  its  endless  fleece 
Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere! 

Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  peace, 
An  everlasting  wash  of  air,  — 

Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease. 


Such  life  there,  through  such  lengths  of  hours, 

Such  miracles  performed  in  play, 
Such  primal  naked  forms  of  flowers, 

Such  letting  Nature  have  her  way 
While  Heaven  looks  from  its  towers. 

How  say  you?     Let  us,  O  my  dove, 

Let  us  be  unashamed  of  soul, 
As  earth  lies  bare  to  heaven  abo.ve. 

How  is  it  under  our  control 
To  love  or  not  to  love? 

I  would  that  you  were  all  to  me, 

You  that  are  just  so  much,  no  more  — 

Nor  yours  nor  mine,  —  nor  slave  nor  free  ! 
Where  does  the  fault  lie?  what  the  core 

Of  the  wound,  since  wound  must  be? 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

I  would  I  could  adopt  your  will, 

See  with  your  eyes,  and  set  my  heart 

Beating  by  yours,  and  drink  my  fill 

At  your  soul's  springs, — your  part,  my  part 

In  life,  for  good  and  ill. 

No.     I  yearn  upward — touch  you  close, 
Then  stand  away.     I  kiss  your  cheek, 

Catch  your  soul's  warmth, — I  pluck  the  rose 
And  love  it  more  than  tongue  can  speak — 

Then  the  good  minute  goes. 

Already  how  am  I  so  far 

Out  of  that  minute  ?    Must  I  go 
Still  like  the  thistle-ball,  no  bar, 

Onward,  whenever  light  winds  blow, 
Fixed  by  no  friendly  star? 

Just  when  I  seemed  about  to  learn ! 

Where  is  the  thread  now  ?     Off  again ! 
The  old  trick !     Only  I  discern — 

Infinite  passion  and  the  pain 
Of  finite  hearts  that  yearn. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


ROME 


THE  APPIAN  WAY 

AWE-STRTJCK  I  gazed  upon  that  rock-paved  way, 
The  Appian  Road;  marmorean  witness  still 
Of  Rome's  resistless  stride  and  fateful  will, 
Which  mocked  at  limits,  opening  out  for  aye 
Divergent  paths  to  one  imperial  sway. 
The  nations  verily  their  parts  fulfil  ; 
And  war  must  plough  the  fields  which  law  shall  till  ; 
Therefore  Rome  triumphed  till  the  appointed  day. 
Then  from  the  Catacombs,  like  waves,  upburst 
The  host  of  God,  and  scaled,  as  in  an  hour, 
O'er  all  the  earth  the  mountain-seats  of  power. 
Gladly  in  that  baptismal  flood  immersed 
The  old  Empire  died  to  live.     Once  more  on  high 
It  sits  ;  now  clothed  with  immortality. 

AUBREY  DE  VERB. 


AUGUST  ON  THE  ROMAN  CAMPAGNA 

SOME  sparkling  morn  before  the  August  rays 
Have  touched  their  fierce  extreme  of  midday  heat, 
From  Albaii  hills  descend  the  white-paved  street 
Trending  to  Rome,  into  the  plain  ablaze 
With  withering  beams.     Then  backward  turn  thy 

gaze 

Upon  the  fair-limned  hazy  heights,  and  meet 
The  flood  of  opalescence  from  a  sweet, 


844       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Young  sky,  that  laves  far  crests,  and  nearer  plays 
Around  the  yellow-flowering  weeds  and  grass, 
Tinctured  burnt-red,  and  brittle  thistles  brown, 
Sere  as  the  blasted  empire's  awful  might 
Engulfed  in  that  vast,  arid,  arch-spanned  down, 
Where  blood-fed  poppies  bloom  upon  a  mass 
Of  woe — yet  gorgeous  in  the  morning  light ! 
FREDERIC  CROWNINSHIELD. 


THE  CAMPAGNA  SEEN  FROM  ST.  JOHN 
LATERAN 

WAS  IT  the  trampling  of  triumphant  hosts 
That  levelled  thus  yon  plain,  sea-like  and  hoary; 
Armies  from  Rome  sent  forth  to  -distant  coasts, 
Or  back  returning  clad  with  spoils  of  glory? 
Around  it  loom  cape,  ridge,  and  promontory : 
Above  it  sunset  shadows  fleet  like  ghosts, 
Fast-borne  o'er   keep   and   tomb,  whose   ancient 

boasts, 

By  Time  confuted,  name  have  none  in  story. 
Fit  seat  for  Rome !  for  here  is  ample  space, 
Which  greatness  chiefly  needs, — severed  alone 
By  yonder  aqueducts,  with  queenly  grace 
That  sweep  in  curves  concentric  ever  on 
(Bridging  a  world  subjected  as  a  chart), 
To  that  great  city,  head  of  earth,  and  heart. 

AUBREY  DE  VERB. 


ROME  245 


THE  ROMAN  CAMPAGNA 

How  GENTLE  here  is  Nature's  mood.   She  lays 

A  woman-hand  upon  the  troubled  heart, 

Bidding  the  world  away  and  time  depart, 

While  the  brief  minutes  swoon  to  endless  days 

Filled  full  of  sad,  inconstant  thoughtfulness. 

Behold  'tis  eventide.    Dun  cattle  stand 

Drowsed  in  the  misted  grasses.     From  'the  hol- 
lows deep, 

Dim  veils,  adrift,  o'er  arch  and  tower  sweep, 
Casting  a  dreary  doubt  along  the  land, 
Weighting  the  twilight  with  some  vague  distress. 

Transient  and  subtle,  not  to  thought  more  near 
Than  spirit  is  to  flesh,  about  me  rise 
Dim  memories,  long  lost  to  love's  sad  eyes ; 

Now  are  they  wandering  shadows,  strange  and 
drear, 

That  from  their  natal  substance  far  have  strayed. 

The  witches  of  the  mind  possess  the  time, 

And  cry,  "Behold  thy  dead !"    They  come,  they 

pass; 
We  yearn  to  give  them  feature,  face.      Alas ! 

Love  hath  no  morn  for  memory's  failing  prime; 

What  once  was  sweet  with  truth  is  but  a  shade. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

The  ghosts  of  nameless  sorrow,  joy,  despair, 
Emotions  that  have  no  remembered  source, 
Love-waifs  from  other  worlds,  hope,  fear,  re- 
morse 

Born  of  some  vision's  crime,  wail  through  the  air, 
Crying,  "We  were  and  are  not," — that  is  all. 

Yet  sweet  the  indecisive  evening  hour 

That  hath  of  earth  the  least.     Unreal  as  dreams 
Dreamed  within  dreams,  and  ever  further,  seems 
The  sound  of  human  toil,  while  grass  and  flower 
Bend  where  the  mercy  of  the  dew  doth  fall. 

Strange  mysteries  of  expectation  wait 

Above  the  grave-mounds  of  the  storied  space, 
Where,  buried,  lie  a  nation's  strength  and  grace, 

And  the  sad  j  oys  of  Rome's  imperious  state 

That  perished  of  its  insolent  excess. 

A  dull,  grey  shroud  o'er  this  vast  burial  rests, 
Is  deathly  still,  or  seems  to  rise  and  fall, 
As  on  a  dear  one,  dead,  the  moveless  pall 
Doth  cheat  the  heart  with  stir  of  her  white  breasts, 
Mocking  the  troubled  hour  with  worse  distress. 

A  deathful  languor  holds  the  twilight  mist, 
Unearthly  colours  drape  the  Alban  hills, 
A  dull  malaria  the  spirit  fills; 
Death  and  decay  all  beauty  here  have  kissed, 
Pledging  the  land  to  sorrowing  loveliness. 

SILAS  WEIE  MITCHELL. 


ROME  247 


SUNSET  ON  THE  CAMPAGNA 

THE  pines  have  no  voice  this  ineffable  hour, 

The  sea  and  the  Dome  shine  through  wavering 
gold; 

Here,  where  stood  temple  and  palace  and  tower, 
Shadows  and  grass  lie  in  fold  over  fold, 

Hiding  meek  hearts  that  were  masterful,  living ; 

Hiding  mute  lips  that  were  loud  with  complaint ; 
Mother  of  all,  is  it  scorn  or  forgiving 

That  covers  so  tenderly  sinner  and  saint? 

Mountains  keep  watch  like  strong  angels  of  pity; 

Mist  on  the  plain  lies  more  light  than  a  kiss ; 
Eyes  that  were  dust  before  Rome  was  a  city, 

Eyes  that  love  brightened,  saw  these,  yet  not 
this. 

Not  the  same  wonder,  not  the  same  glory, 

Other,  not  lovelier,  sunset  and  morn; 
Neither  can  thought  find  an  end  to  the  story 

Of  youth  for  whose  rapture  the  world  is  new- 
born. 

HELEN  J.  SANBOEN. 


THE  RIVER  TIBER 


THE  TIBER 

THE  sea  was  flushing  in  the  morning's  rays, 
And  from  the  ethereal  heights  Aurora's  car 
With  rose  and  saffron  gleamed ;  when  suddenly 
The  winds  were  stilled,  and  every  breath  of  air, 
And  the  oars  struggled  through  the  sluggish  sea. 
And  here  JEneas  from  the  deep  descries 
A  spacious  grove.     Through  this  the  Tiber  pours 
His  smiling  waves  along,  with  rapid  whirls, 
And  yellow  sand,  and  bursts  into  the  sea. 
And  all  around  and  overhead  were  birds 
Of  various  hues,  accustomed  to  the  banks 
And  river-bed;  from  tree  to  tree  they  flew, 
Soothing  the  air  with  songs.     Then  to  the  land 
He  bids  the  crews  direct  the  vessels'  prows, 

And  joyfully  the  shadowy  river  gains. 

*  #  # 

All  through  that  night  the  Tiber  calmed  his  flood, 
And,  ebbing  backward,  stood  with  tranquil  waves, 
Smoothing  its  surface  like  a  placid  lake, 
That   without   struggling   oars   the   ships   might 

glide. 

So  on  their  way  they  speed  with  joyous  shouts. 
248 


THE  RIVER  TIBER  249 

Along  the  waters  slip  the  well-tarred  keels ; 
The  waves  with  wonder  gaze,  and  from  afar 
The  woods,  unused  to  such  a  sight,  admire 
Upon  the  stream  the  heroes'  glittering  shields 
And  painted  vessels.     Night  and  day  their  oars 
They  ply,  pass  the  long  bending  river's  curves ; 
And  through  green  shades  of  overhanging  trees 
They  pierce,  along  the  tranquil  waters  borne. 
The  fiery  sun  had  reached  his  noonday  height, 
When  from  afar  they  see  a  citadel, 
And  walls,  and  scattered  houses  here  and  there ; 
Which  now  Rome  matches  with  the  skies,  but  then 
Evander's  small  and  humble  town.     Then  swift 
They  turn  their  prows,  and  near  the  city's  walls. 

VIRGIL. 
Tr.  C.  P.  Cranch. 


THE  RIVER  TIBER 

TIBER  is  beautiful,  too,  and  the  orchard  slopes, 

and  the  Anio 
Falling,    falling,    yet,     to    the     ancient     lyrical 

cadence ; 
Tiber  and  Anio's  tide;  and  cool  from  Lucretilis 

ever, 
With  the  Digentian  stream,  and  with  the  Bandu- 

sian  fountain, 


250       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Folded  in  Sabine  recesses,  the  valley  and  villa  of 
Horace : 

So  not  seeing  I  sung;  so  seeing  and  listening 
say  I, 

Here,  as  I  sit  by  the  stream,  as  I  gaze  at  the  cell 
of  the  Sibyl, 

Here  with  Albunea's  home  and  the  grove  of  Ti- 
burnus  beside  me; 

Tivoli  beautiful  is,  and  musical,  O  Teverone, 

Dashing  from  mountain  to  plain,  thy  parted  im- 
petuous waters ! 

Tivoli's  waters  and  rocks;  and  fair  under  Monte 
Gennaro 

(Haunt  even  yet,  I  must  think,  as  I  wander  and 
gaze,  of  the  shadows, 

Faded  and  pale,  yet  immortal,  of  Faunus,  the 
Nymphs,  and  the  Graces), 

Fair  in  itself,  and  yet  fairer  with  human  complet- 
ing creations, 

Folded  in  Sabine  recesses  the  valley  and  villa  of 
Horace : 

So  not  seeing  I  sung ;  so  now,  nor  seeing  nor  hear- 
ing, 

Neither  by  waterfall  lulled,  nor  folded  in  sylvan 
embraces, 

Neither  by  cell  of  the  Sibyl,  nor  stepping  the 
Monte  Gennaro, 

Seated  on  Anio's  bank,  nor  sipping  Bandusian 
waters, 


THE  RIVER  TIBER  251 

But  on  Montorio's  height,  looking  down  on  the 
tile-clad  streets,  the 

Cupolas,    crosses,    and    domes,    the    bushes    and 
kitchen-gardens, 

Which,  by  the  grace  of  the  Tiber,  proclaim  them- 
selves Rome  of  the  Romans. 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 


THE  ALBAN  HILLS 


MONTE  CAVO 

HAIL!  king  of  beech-trees  on  this  mountain-crest 
Raising  aloft  thy  rugged  bole  and  thick, 
And,  like  a  many-branching  candlestick, 
Reaching  thy  gracious  arms  above  the  rest. 

The  young  trees  murmur  and  gleam  in  the  sun 

and  toss, 

Breeze-fondled.     Vibrant  harmony  they  sing, 
Stung  with  desire,  and  every  fibrous  thing 
Takes,  in  the  sun  and  the  wind,  a  rarer  gloss. 

The  undulating  lines  of  the  foothills  join 
The  little  towns  vivaciously  together, 
Saluting  each  by  each,  and  from  the  nether 
Soft-sliding  shadows  seek  a  vantage-coign. 

Good-morrow    Frascati!  whose  buoyant,  teeming 

air 

Is  impregnate  with  young  creativeness. 
When   the   good   Autumn   comes    your   peasants 

press 

Grand  liquor  from  your  vineyards  everywhere. 
252 


THE  ALBAN  HILLS  253 

Good-morrow   Rocca  di  Papa,  high,  so  high, 
You  cling  upon  your  crag  precipitous 
Like  flocks  of  mountain  goats    the  impetuous 
Assault  of  wolves  has  come  to  terrify. 

Good-morrow     Marino!     and    Castel    Gandolfo, 

good-day ! 

Who  offer  your  lips  for  the  hearty  breeze  to  kiss, 
Respecting  your  ancient,  rustic  beauty — this 
That  holds  in  crescent-wise  arms  the  emerald  bay. 

Behold  Albano,  Genzano,  and,  near  the  tall  bridge, 
Arriccia,  comrade  of  Nemi,  which  ruled  the  towns 

neighbouring 

What  time  the  feudal  Orsini,  mightily  laboring, 
Piled  them  a  massive  stronghold  high  on  the  ridge. 

Closed  in  the  whorls  of  the  hills  as  in  whorls  of  a 
shell, 

There  the  sad  waves  of  the  two  lakes  curl  ever- 
more, 

•Mournfully  washing  on  desolate  reaches  of  shore 

Rich  on  a  time  with  forests  no  iron  dared  fell. 

Wide  the  campagna  extends,  in  silence  furled — 
In  silence  profound  and  in  its  potent  peace; 
And  far  beyond  the  pallid  fields  one  sees 
The  sacred  place  that  once  contained  the  world. 

Lies  the  City,  wrapped  in  a  vaporous  shroud, 
Like  to  a  person  by  deep  sleep  oppressed. 


THEOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Never  an  echo  carries  to  this  crest 
Aught  of  the  mighty  clangor  of  its  crowd. 

Here  it  is  sweet  to  lie  and  quite  forget 

All  of  the  tumults  and  annoys  of  life. 

J^ll  of  the  tumult  here,  the  murmurous  strife 

Of  young  leaves  that  upon  the  green  twigs  fret. 

By  every  plant  that  sheds  a  murmur  dim 
Upon  the  air,  by  every  nimble  stem, 
By  every  stone  and  tree,  by  all  of  them 
Is  raised  a  solemn,  an  imperious  hymn: 

"I  hymn  the  candid  praises  of  eternal 
Life  which  is  in  the  flame  and  in  the  spring, 
In  insect,  ocean,  planet — everything, — 
In  the  rude  clod  and  in  the  Judge  supernal. 

"Of  Life  which  knows  to  whizz  and  hum  and  boom. 

Eternally  it  murders  and  creates. 

In  action  and  in  thought  it  radiates ; 

And  glows  within  the  cradle  an$  the  tomb." 

Stretch  over  me,  O  beech,  thy  mighty  arms, 
Who   viewest   from   thine   height   the  plains   and 

skies. 

This  hour  is  mine,  though  countless  unborn  eyes 
Shall  know  in  coming  centuries  thy  charms. 

GIOSUE  CAEDUCCI. 
TV.  Robert  Haven  Schauffler. 


THE   ALBAN    HILLS  255 

SPRING  AMONG  THE  ALBAN  HILLS 

"Silent  with  expectation." — Shelley. 

O'ER  the  Campagna  it  is  dim  warm  weather, 
The  Spring  comes  with  a  full  heart  silently 
And  many  thoughts,  a  faint  flash  of  the  sea 

Divides    two    mists;    straight    falls    the    falling 
feather. 

With  wild  Spring  meanings  hill  and  plain  together 
Grow  pale,  or  just  flush  with  a  dust  of  flowers. 
Rome  in  the  ages,  dimmed  with  all  her  towers, 

Floats  in  the  midst,  a  little  cloud  at  tether. 

I  fain  would  put  my  hands  about  thy  face, 

Thou    with    thy    thoughts,    who     art    another 

Spring, 
And  draw  thee  to  me  like  a  mournful  child. 

Thou  lookest  on  me  from  another  place; 

I  touch  not  this  day's  secret,  nor  the  thing 
That  in  thy  silence  makes  thy  sweet  eyes  wild. 

ALICE  MEYNELL. 


FRASCATI 


AT  THE  VILLA  CONTI 

WHAT  peace  and  quiet  in  this  villa  sleep ! 
Here  let  us  pause,  nor  chase  for  pleasure  on; 
Nothing  can  be  more  exquisite  than  this, — 
Work,  for  the  nonce  farewell, — this  day  we'll  give 
To  fallow  joys  of  perfect  idleness. 

See  how  the  old  house  lifts  its  face  of  light 
Against  the  pallid  olives  that  behind 
Throng  up  the  hill.     Look  down  this  vista's  shade 
Of  dark  square  shaven  ilexes,  where  spurts 
The  fountain's  thin  white  thread,  and  blows  away. 
And  mark !  along  the  terraced  balustrade 
Two  contadine  stopping  in  the  shade, 
With  copper  vases  poised  upon  their  heads, 
How  their  red  j  ackets  tell  against  the  green ! 

Old,  all  is  old, — what  charm  there  is  in  age ! 
Do  you  believe  this  villa  when  't  was  new 
Was  half  so  beautiful  as  now  it  seems? 
Look  at  these  balustrades  of  travertine, 
Had   they    the    charm   when    fresh   and    sharply 
carved 

256 


FEASCATI  257 

As  now  that  they  are  stained  and  greyed  with 

time 

And  mossed  with  lichens,  every  grim  old  mask 
That  grins  upon  their  pillars  bearded  o'er 
With  waving  sprays  of  slender  maiden-hair? 
Ah  no !  I  cannot  think  it.     Things  of  art 
Snatch  nature's  graces  from  the  hand  of  Time. 
Here  will  we  sit  and  let  the  sleeping  moon 
Doze  on  and  dream  into  the  afternoon, 
While  all  the  mountains  shake  in  opal  light, 
Forever  shifting,  till  the  sun's  last  glance 
Transfigures  with  its  splendour  all  our  world. 
WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY. 


A  VISIT  TO  TUSCULUM 

A  SOLEMN  thing  it  is,  and  full  of  awe, 
Wandering  long  time  among  the  lonely  hills, 
To  issue  on  a  sudden  mid  the  wrecks 
Of  some  fallen  city,  as  might  seem  a  coast 
From  which  the  tide  of  life  has  ebbed  away, 
Leaving  bare  sea-marks  only.     Such  there  lie 
Among  the  Alban  mountains, — Tusculum, 
Or  Palestrina  with  Cyclopean  walls 
Enormous:  and  this  solemn  awe  we  felt 
And  knew  this  morning,  when  we  stood  among 
What  of  the  first-named  city  yet  survives. 


258       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

For  we  had  wandered  long  among  those  hills, 
Watching  the  white  goats  on  precipitous  heights, 
Half  hid  among  the  bushes,  or  their  young 
Tending  new-yeaned:  and  we  had  paused  to  hear 
The  deep-toned  music  of  the  convent  bells, 
And  wound  through  many  a  verdant  forest-path, 
Gathering  the  crocus  and  anemone, 
With  that  fresh  gladness  which,  when  flowers  are 

new 

In  the  first  spring,  they  bring  us,  till  at  last 
We  issued  out  upon  an  eminence, 
Commanding  prospect  large  on  every  side, 
But  largest  where  the  world's  great  city  lay, 
Whose  features,  undistinguishable  now, 
Allowed  no  recognition,  save  where  the  eye 
Could  mark  the  white  front  of  the  Lateran 
Facing  this  way,  or  rested  on  the  dome, 
The  broad  stupendous  dome,  high  over  all. 
And  as  a  sea  around  an  island's  roots 
Spreads,  so  the  level  champaign  every  way 
Stretched  round  the  city,  level  all,  and  green 
With  the  new  vegetation  of  the  spring; 
Nor  by  the  summer  ardours  scorched  as  yet, 
Which  shot  from  southern  suns,  too  soon  dry  up 
The  beauty  and  the  freshness  of  the  plains ; 
While  to  the  right  the  ridge  of  Apennine, 
Its  higher  farther  summits  all  snow-crowned, 
Rose,  with  white  clouds  above  them,  as  might  seem 
Another  range  of  more  aerial  hills. 


FRASCATI  259 

These  things  were  at  a  distance,  but  more  near 
And  at  our  feet  signs  of  the  tide  of  life, 
That  once  was  here,  and  now  had  ebbed  away, — 
Pavements  entire,  without  one  stone  displaced, 
Where  yet  there  had  not  rolled  a  chariot-wheel 
For  many  hundred  years ;  rich  cornices, 
Elaborate  friezes  of  rare  workmanship, 
And  broken  shafts  of  columns,  that  along 
This   highway-side  lay   prone;   vaults   that  were 

rooms, 

And  hollowed  from  the  turf,  and  cased  in  stone, 
Seats  and  gradations  of  a  theater, 
Which  emptied  of  its  population  now 
Shall  never  be  refilled :  and  all  these  things, 
Memorials  of  the  busy  life  of  man, 
Or  of  his  ample  means  for  pomp  and  pride, 
Scattered  among  the  solitary  hills, 
And  lying  open  to  the  sun  and  showers, 
And  only  visited  at  intervals 
By  wandering  herds,  or  pilgrims  like  ourselves 
From  distant  lands ;  with  now  no  signs  of  life, 
Save  where  the  goldfinch  built  his  shallow  nest 
Mid  the  low  bushes,  or  where  timidly 
The  rapid  lizard  glanced  between  the  stones, — 
All  saying  that  the  fashion  of  this  world 
Passes  away ;  that  not  philosophy 
Nor  eloquence  can  guard  their  dearest  haunts 
From  the  rude  touch  of  desecrating  time. 
What  marvel,  when  the  very  fanes  of  God, 


260       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

The  outward  temples  of  the  Holy  One, 
Claim  no  exemption  from  the  general  doom, 
But  lie  in  ruinous  heaps ;  when  nothing  stands, 
Nor  may  endure  to  the  end,  except  alone 
The  spiritual  temple  built  with  living  stones? 
RICHARD  CHENEVIX  TRENCH. 


TO  THE  FOUNTAIN  AT  FRASCATI 

NOT  by  Aldobrandini's  watery  show, 

Still  plashing  at  his  portal  never  dumb, 

Minished  of  my  devotion,  shalt  thou  come, 
Leaving  thy  natural  fount  on  Algido, 
Wild  winged  daughter  of  the  Sabine  snow ; 

Now  creeping  under  quiet  Tusculum; 

Now    gushing    from    those    caverns    old    and 

numb ; — 

Dull  were  his  heart  who  gazed  upon  thee  so. 
Emblem  thou  art  of  Time,  memorial  stream, 

Which  in  ten  thousand  fancies,  being  here, 
We  waste,  or  use,  or  fashion,  as  we  deem ; 

But  if  its  backward  voice  comes  ever  near, 
As  thine  upon  the  hill,  how  doth  it  seem 

Solemn  and  stern,  sepulchral  and  severe ! 

LORD  HANMER. 


CIVITA  LAVINIA(LANUVIUM) 


AT  LANUVIUM 

"Festo  quid  potius  die 
Neptuni  faciam." 

— Horace,  Odes,  iii-£8. 

SPRING  grew  to  perfect  summer  in  one  day, 
And  we  lay  there  among  the  vines,  to  gaze 

Where  Circe's  isle  floats  purple  far  away 
Above  the  golden  haze: 

And  on  our  ears  there  seemed  to  rise  and  fall 
The  burden  of  an  old  world  song  we  knew, 

That  sang,  "To-day  is  Neptune's  festival, 
And  we,  what  shall  we  do?" 

Go  down,  brown-armed  Campagna  maid  of  mine, 
And  bring  again  the  earthen  jar  that  lies 

With  three  years'  dust  above  the  mellow  wine ; 
And  while  the  swift  day  dies, 

You  first  shall  sing  a  song  of  waters  blue, 
Paphos  and  Cnidos  in  the  summer  seas, 
And    one    who    guides    her    swan-drawn    chariot 
through 

The  white-shored  Cyclades; 
261 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

And  I  will  take  the  second  turn  of  song, 
Of  floating  tresses  in  the  foam  and  surge 

Where  Nereid  maids  about  the  sea-god  throng ; 
And  night  shall  have  her  dirge. 

RENNELL  RODD. 


LAKE   NEMI 

THE  MIRROR  OF  DIANA 

(Popular  Name  for  Lake  Nemi) 

SHE  floats  into  the  quiet  skies, 

Where,  in  the  circle  of  the  hills, 

Her  immemorial  mirror  fills 
With  light,  as  of  a  Virgin's  eyes 

When,  love  a-tremble  in  their  blue, 

They  glow  twin  violets  dipped  in  dew. 

Mild  as  a  metaphor  of  Sleep, 
Immaculately  maiden-white, 
The  Queen  Moon  of  ancestral  night 

Beholds  her  image  in  the  deep: 
As  if  a-gaze  she  beams  above 
Lake  Nemi's  magic  glass  of  love. 

White  rose,  white  lily  of  the  vale, 

Perfume  the  even  breath  of  night ; 

In  many  a  burst  of  sweet  delight 
The  love  throb  of  the  nightingale 

Swells  through  lush  flowering  woods  and  fills 

The  circle  of  the  listening  hills, 
263 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

White  rose,  white  lily  of  the  skies, 

The  Moon-flower  blossoms  in  the  lake; 
The  nightingale  for  her  fair  sake 

With  hopeless  love's  impassioned  cries 
Seems  fain  to  sing  till  song  must  kill 
Himself  with  one  tumultuous  trill. 


And  all  the  songs  and  all  the  scents, 
The  light  of  glow-worms  and  the  fires 
Of  fire-flies  in  the  cypress  spires ; 

And  all  the  wild  wind  instruments 
Of  pine  and  ilex  as  the  breeze 
Sweeps  out  their  mystic  harmonies  ;- 

All  are  but  Messengers  of  May 
To  that  white  orb  of  maiden  fire 
Who  fills  the  moth  with  mad  desire 

To  die  enamoured  in  her  ray, 

And  turns  each  dewdrop  in  the  grass 
nto  a  fairy  looking-glass. 

O  Beauty,  far  and  far  above 

The  night  moth  and  the  nightingale ! 

Far,  far  above  life's  narrow  pale, 
O  Unattainable!       O  Love! 

Even  as  the  nightingale  we  cry 

For  some  Ideal  set  on  high. 


LAKE  NEMI  265 

Haunting  the  deep  reflective  mind, 
You  may  surprise  its  perfect  Sphere 
Glassed  like  the  Moon  within  her  mere, 

Who  at  a  puff  of  alien  wind 
Melts  in  innumerable  rings, 
Elusive  in  the  flux  of  things. 

MATHILDE  BLIND. 


TIVOLI 


TIVOLI 

AND  where  breathes  Nature  deeper  oracles 

Than  in  thy  depths,  romantic  Tivoli ! 

Here,  where  the  spirit  of  past  ages  dwells, 

Lulled  by  the  waters'  voice  of  prophecy, 

Endiademed  with  craggy  majesty, 

And   plumed  with  woods    that   shed   a   horror 
round? 

From  the  deep  olive  grove  lift  up  thine  eye ; 

Lo,  on  yon  airy  cliff's  extremest  bound 
The  Sibyl's  temple  reared  against  the  blue  pro- 
found ; 

Where  the  wrecked  image  of  the  beautiful, 
Conscious  of  faded  hues  and  felt  decline, 
Looks  down  on  eloquence  that  doth  o'errule 
The  heart  far  more  than  language,  though  di- 
vine 

Were  he  who  spake ;  full  swells  the  flowing  line 
Of  light  and  delicate  proportion  there; 
Time's  grey  tints  mellowing  that  ruined  shrine, 
Impart  a  speaking  sadness  to  its  air, 
A  venerable  grace  that  doth  his  wrongs  repair. 

JOHN  EDMUND  READE. 


TIVOLI  267 

RED  POPPIES 

IN    THE   SABINE   VALLEYS   NEAR   ROME 

THROUGH  the  seeding  grass, 

And  the  tall  corn. 

The  wind  goes: 

With  nimble  feet, 

And  blithe  voice, 

Calling,  calling, 

The  wind  goes 

Through  the  seeding  grass 

And  the  tall  corn. 

What  calleth  the  wind, 
Passing  by — 
The  shepherd-wind? 
Far  and  near 
He  laugheth  low, 
And  the  red  poppies 
Lift  their  heads 
And  toss  i'  the  sun. 

A   thousand  thousand  blooms 

Tossed  i'  the  air, 

Banners  of  joy, 

For  't  is  the  shepherd-wind 

Passing  by, 

Singing  and  laughing  low 

Through  the  seeding  grass 

And  the  tall  corn. 

WILLIAM  SHARP. 


#68       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

THE  VILLA  OF  HADRIAN 

"Animula,  vagula,  blandula." 

THE  golden  glory  of  an  autumn  sun 

Sheds  its  full  radiance  on  the  mountain  tops; 

While,   save  the  birds'   bright   singing  in   the 

copse, 

No  murmur  breaks  the  midday  hush,  not  one. 
I  dream  among  vast  columns,  overspun 

With  cobwebs,  walls  from  which  the  ivy  drops 

In  gleaming  clusters,  roofs  whose  mighty  props 
Are  tottering,  halls  whose  grandeur  is  undone. 

And  thou,  whose  curious  spirit  planned  this  whole, 

To  make  thine  eve  epitomise  thy  noon, 
Whose  restlessness,  forced  here  to  find  its  goal, 
Lay    brooding    on    the   hour    that    comes    too 

soon, — 
Flits  now  thy  timid,  frail,  unquiet  soul 

Beyond  the  orbed  wanderings  of  the  moon? 
GAMALIEL  BRADFORD,  Jr. 


LICENZA 


THE  SABINE  FARM 

I  OFTEN  wished  I  had  a  farm, 
A  decent  dwelling  snug  and  warm, 
A  garden,  and  a  spring  as  pure 
As  crystal  running  by  my  door, 
Besides  a  little  ancient  grove, 
Where  at  my  leisure  I  might  rove. 

The  gracious  gods,  to  crown  my  bliss, 
Have  granted  this,  and  more  than  this ; 
I  have  enough  in  my  possessing; 
'T  is  well:  I  ask  no  greater  blessing, 
O  Hermes!  than  remote  from  strife 
To  have  and  hold  them  for  my  life. 

If  I  was  never  known  to  raise 
My  fortune  by  dishonest  ways, 
Nor,  like  the  spendthrifts  of  the  times, 
Shall  ever  sink  it  by  my  crimes : 
If  thus  I  neither  pray  nor  ponder, — 
O,  might  I  have  that  angle  yonder, 
Which  disproportions  now  my  field, 
What  satisfaction  it  would  yield! 
O  that  some  lucky  chance  but  threw 


270       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

A  pot  of  silver  in  my  view, 
As  lately  to  the  man,  who  bought 
The  very  land  in  whioh  he  wrought! 
If  I  am  pleased  with  my  condition, 
O,  hear,  and  grant  this  last  petition: 
Indulgent,  let  my  cattle  batten, 
Let  all  things,  but  my  fancy,  fatten, 
And  thou  continue  still  to  guard, 
As  thou  art  wont,  thy  suppliant  bard. 

Whenever,  therefore,  I  retreat 
From  Rome  into  my  Sabine  seat, 
By  mountains  fenced  on  either  side, 
And  in  my  castle  fortified, 
What  can  I  write  with  greater  pleasure, 
Than  satires  in  familiar  measure? 
Nor  mad  ambition  there  destroys, 
Nor  sickly  wind  my  health  annoys ; 
Nor  noxious  autumn  gives  me  pain, 

The  ruthless  undertaker's  gain. 

*  *  # 

Thus,  in  this  giddy,  busy  maze 
I  lose  the  sunshine  of  my  days, 
And  oft,  with  fervent  wish  repeat, 
"When  shall  I  see  my  sweet  retreat? 
O,  when  with  books  of  sages  deep, 
Sequestered  ease,  and  gentle  sleep, 
In  sweet  oblivion,  blissful  balm ! 
The  busy  cares  of  life  becalm? 
O,  when  shall  I  enrich  my  veins, 


LlCENZA  £71 

Spite  of  Pythagoras,  with  beans  ? 

Or  live  luxurious  in  my  cottage, 

On  bacon  ham  and  savory  pottage? 

O  joyous  nights!  delicious  feasts! 

At  which  the  gods  might  be  my  guests." 

My  friends  and  I  regaled,  my  slaves 
Enjoy  what  their  rich  master  leaves. 
There  every  guest  may  drink  and  fill 
As  much  or  little  as  he  will, 
Exempted  from  the  bedlam-rules 
Of  roaring  prodigals  and  fools : 
Whether,  in  merry  mood  or  whim, 
He  fills  his  bumper  to  the  brim, 
Or,  better  pleased  to  let  it  pass, 
Grows  mellow  with  a  moderate  glass. 

Nor  this  man's  house,  nor  that's  estate, 
Becomes  the  subject  of  debate; 
Nor  whether  Lepos,  the  buffoon, 
Can  dance,  or  not,  a  rigadoon ; 
But  what  concerns  us  more,  I  trow, 
And  were  a  scandal  not  to  know : 
Whether  our  bliss  consist  in  store 
Of  riches,  or  in  virtue's  lore ; 
Whether  esteem,  or  private  ends, 
Should  guide  us  in  the  choice  of  friends ; 
Or,  what,  if  rightly  understood, 
Man's  real  bliss,  and  sovereign  good. 

HORACE. 
Tr.  Philip  Francis. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


"O  FONS  BANDUSLE" 

O  babbling  Spring,  than  glass  more  clear, 
Worthy  of  wreath  and  cup  sincere, 

To-morrow  shall  a  kid  be  thine 

With  swelled  and  sprouting  brows  for  sign,- 
Sure  sign  !  —  of  loves  and  battles  near. 

Child  of  the  race  that  butt  and  rear  ! 
Not  less,  alas  !  his  life  blood  dear 

Must  tinge  thy  cold  wave  crystalline, 

O  babbling  Spring! 

Thee  Sirius  knows  not.    Thou  dost  cheer 
With  pleasant  cool  the  plough-worn  steer,  — 
The  wandering  flock.     This  verse  of  mine 
Will  rank  thee  one  with  founts  divine  ; 
Men  shall  thy  rock  and  tree  revere, 

O  babbling  Spring! 

HOEACE. 

Tr.  Austin  Dobson. 


OSTIA 


OSTIA 

THE  sea  was  flushing  in  the  morning's  rays, 
And  from  the  ethereal  heights  Aurora's  car 
With  rose  and  saffron  gleamed ;  when  suddenly 
The  winds  were  stilled,  and  every  breath  of  air, 
And  the  oars  struggled  through  the  sluggish  sea. 
And  here  JEneas  from  the  deep  descries 
A  spacious  grove.     Through  this  the  Tiber  pours 
His  smiling  waves  along,  with  rapid  whirls, 
And  yellow  sand,  and  bursts  into  the  sea. 
And  all  around  and  overhead  were  birds 
Of  various  hues,  accustomed  to  the  banks 
And  river-bed ;  from  tree  to  tree  they  flew, 
Soothing  the  air  with  songs.     Then  to  the  land 
He  bids  the  crews  direct  the  vessel's  prows, 
And  joyfully  the  shadowy  river  gains. 

VIRGIL. 
Tr.  C.  P.  Cranch. 

AT  TIBER  MOUTH 

THE  low  plains  stretch  to  the  west  with  a  glim- 
mer of  rustling  weeds, 

Where  the  waves  of  a  golden  river  wind  home  by 
the  marshy  meads ; 
273 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

And  the  strong  wind  born  of  the  sea  grows  faint 

with  a  sickly  breath, 
As  it  stays  in  the  fretting  rushes  and  blows  on  the 

dews  of  death. 
We  came  to  the  silent  city,  in  the  glare  of  the 

noontide  heat, 
When  the  sound  of  a  whisper  rang  through  the 

length  of  the  lonely  street ; 
No  tree  in  the  clefted  ruin,  no  echo  of  song  nor 

sound, 
But  the  dust  of  a  world  forgotten  lay  under  the 

barren  ground. 
There  are  shrines  under  these  green  hillocks  to  the 

beautiful  gods  that  sleep 
Where  they  prayed  in  the  stormy  season  for  lives 

gone  out  on  the  deep ; 
And  here  in  the  grave  street  sculptured,  old  record 

of  loves  and  tears, 
By  the  dust  of  the  nameless  slave,  forgotten  a 

thousand  years. 
Not  ever  again  at  even  shall  ship  sail  in  on  the 

breeze, 
Where  the  hulls  of  their  gilded  galleys  came  home 

from  a  hundred  seas, 
For  the  marsh  plants  grow  in  her  haven,  the  marsh 

birds  breed  in  her  bay, 
And  a  mile  to  the  shoreless  westward  the  water  has 

passed  away. 


OSTIA  275 

But  the  sea-folk  gathering  rushes  come  up  from 

the  windy  shore, 
So  the  song  that  the  years  have  silenced  grows 

musical  there  once  more; 
And  now  and  again  unburied,  like  some  still  voice 

from  the  dead, 
They  light  on  the  fallen  shoulder  and  the  lines 

of  a  marble  head. 

But  we  went  from  the  sorrowful  city  and  wan- 
dered away  at  will, 
And   thought   of  the   breathing  marble  and   the 

words  that  are  music  still. 
How  full  were  their  lives  that  laboured,  in  their 

fetterless  strength  and  far 
From  the  ways  that  our  feet  have  chosen  as  the 

sunlight  is  from  the  star, 
They  clung  to  the  chance  and  promise  that  once 

while  the  years  are  free 
Look  over  our  life's  horizon  as  the  sun  looks  over 

the  sea, 
But  we  wait  for  a  day  that  dawns  not,  and  cry  for 

unclouded  skies, 
And  while  we  are  deep  in  dreaming  the  light  that 

was  o'er  us  dies ; 
We  know  not  what  of  the  present  we  shall  stretch 

out  our  hand  to  save 
Who  sing  of  the  life  we  long  for,  and  not  of  the 

life  we  have; 


276       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

And  yet  if  the  chance  were  with  us  to  gather  the 
days  misspent, 

Should  we  change  the  old  resting-places,  the  wan- 
dering ways  we  went? 

They  were  strong,  but  the  years  are  stronger; 
they  are  grown  but  a  name  that  thrills, 

And  the  wreck  of  their  marble  glory  lies  ghost- 
like over  their  hills. 

So  a  shadow  fell  o'er  our  dreaming  for  the  weary 
heart  of  the  past, 

For  the  seed  that  the  years  have  scattered,  to  reap 
so  little  at  last, 

And  we  went  to  the  sea-shore  forest,  through  a 
long  colonnade  of  pines, 

Where  the  skies  peep  in  and  the  sea,  with  a  flit- 
ting of  silver  lines. 

And  we  came  on  an  open  place  in  the  green  deep 
heart  of  the  wood 

Where  I  think  in  the  years  forgotten  an  altar  of 
Faunus  stood; 

From  a  spring  in  the  long  dark  grasses  two  rivu- 
lets rise  and  run 

By  the  length  of  their  sandy  borders  where  the 
snake  lies  coiled  in  the  sun. 

And  the  stars  of  the  white  narcissus  lie  over  the 
grass  like  snow, 

And  beyond  in  the  shadowy  places  the  crimson 
cyclamens  grow ; 


OSTIA  277 

Far  up  from  their  wave  home  yonder  the  sea-winds 
murmuring  pass, 

The  branches  quiver  and  creak  and  the  lizard 
starts  in  the  grass. 

And  we  lay  in  the  untrod  moss  and  pillowed  our 
cheeks  with  flowers, 

While  the  sun  went  over  our  heads,  and  we  took  no 
count  of  the  hours; 

From  the  end  of  the  waving  branches  and  under 
the  cloudless  blue 

Like  sunbeams  chained  for  a  banner  the  thread- 
like gossamers  flew. 

And  the  joy  of  the  woods  came -o'er  us,  and  we  felt 
that  our  world  was  young 

With  the  gladness  of  years  unspent  and  the  sor- 
row of  life  unsung. 

So  we  passed  with  a  sound  of  singing  along  to  the 
seaward  way, 

Where  the  sails  of  the  fishermen  folk  came  home- 
ward over  the  bay ; 

For  a  cloud  grew  over  the  forest  and  darkened 
the  sea-god's  shrine, 

And  the  hills  of  the  silent  city  were  only  a  ruby 
line. 

But  the  sun  stood  still  on  the  waves  as  we  passed 
from  the  fading  shores, 

And  shone  on  our  boat's  red  bulwarks  and  the 
golden  blades  of  the  oars, 


278      THROUGH  ITALY  .WITH  THE  POETS 

And  it  seemed  as  we  steered  for  the  sunset  that  we 

passed  through  a  twilight  sea, 
From  the  gloom  of  a  world  forgotten  to  the  light 

of  a  world  to  be. 

RENNELL  RODD. 


MONTE  CASSINO 


MONTE  CASSINO 

BEAUTIFUL  valley!  through  whose  verdant  meads 
Unheard  the  Garigliano  glides  along; — 

The  Liris,  nurse  of  rushes  and  of  reeds, 
The  river  taciturn  of  classic  song. 

The  Land  of  Labour  and  the  Land  of  Rest, 
Where  mediaeval  towns  are  white  on  all 

The  hillsides,  and  where  every  mountain's  crest 
Is  an  Etrurian  or  a  Roman  wall. 

There  is  Alagna,  where  Pope  Boniface 

Was  dragged  with  contumely  from  his  throne; 

Sciarra  Colonna,  was  that  day's  disgrace 
The  Pontiff's  only,  or  in  part  thine  own? 

There  is  Ceprano,  where  a  renegade 

Was  each  Apulian,  as  great  Dante  saith, 

When  Manfred  by  his  men-at-arms  betrayed 
Spurred  on  to  Benevento  and  to  death. 

There  is  Aquinum,  the  old  Volscian  town, 
Where  Juvenal  was  born,  whose  lurid  light 

Still  hovers  o'er  his  birthplace  like  the  crown 
Of  splendour  seen  o'er  cities  in  the  night. 
279 


280       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Doubled  the  splendour  is,  that  in  its  streets 
The  Angelic  Doctor  as  a  school-boy  played, 

And  dreamed  perhaps  the  dreams,  that  he  repeats 
In  ponderous  folios  for  scholastics  made. 

And  there,  uplifted,  like  a  passing  cloud 
That  pauses  on  a  mountain  summit  high, 

Monte  Cassino's  convent  rears  its  proud 
And  venerable  walls  against  the  sky. 

Well  I  remember  how  on  foot  I  climbed 
The  stony  pathway  leading  to  its  gate ; 

Above,  the  convent  bells  for  vespers  chimed, 
Below,  the  darkening  town  grew  desolate. 

Well  I  remember  the  low  arch  and  dark, 

The  courtyard  with  its  well,  the  terrace  wide, 

From  which  far  down  the  valley,  like  a  park 
Veiled  in  the  evening  mists,  was  dim  descried. 

The  day  was  dying,  and  with  feeble  hands 

Caressed  the  mountains-tops;  the  vales  between 

Darkened;  the  river  in  the  meadow-lands 

Sheathed  itself  as  a  sword,  and  was  not  seen. 

The  silence  of  the  place  was  like  a  sleep, 

So  full  of  rest  it  seemed ;  each  passing  tread 

Was  a  reverberation  from  the  deep 
Recesses  of  the  ages  that  are  dead. 


MONTE  CASSINO  281 

For,  more  than  thirteen  centuries  ago, 

Benedict  fleeing  from  the  gates  of  Rome, 

A  youth  disgusted  with  its  vice  and  woe, 
Sought  in  these  mountain  solitudes  a  home. 

He  founded  here  his  Convent  and  his  Rule 

Of   prayer   and   work,   and   counted   work   as 
prayer ; 

The  pen  became  a  clarion,  and  his  school 
Flamed  like  a  beacon  in  the  midnight  air. 

What  though  Boccaccio,  in  his  reckless  way, 
Mocking  the  lazy  brotherhood,  deplores 

The  illuminated  manuscripts,  that  lay 
Torn  and  neglected  on  the  dusty  floors? 

Boccaccio  was  a  novelist,  a  child 

Of  fancy  and  of  fiction  at  the  best ! 
This  the  urbane  librarian  said,  and  smiled 

Incredulous,  as  at  some  idle  jest. 

Upon  such  themes  as  these,  with  one  young  friar 
I  sat  conversing  late  into  the  night, 

Till  in  its  cavernous  chimney  the  wood-fire 
Had  burnt  its  heart  out  like  an  anchorite. 

And  then  translated,  in  my  convent  cell, 
Myself  yet  not  myself,  in  dreams  I  lay; 

And,  as  a  monk  who  hears  the  matin  bell, 
Started  from  sleep;  already  it  was  day. 


£82       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

From  the  high  window  I  beheld  the  scene 

On  which  Saint  Benedict  so  oft  had  gazed, — 

The  mountains  and  the  valley  in  the  sheen 

Of  the  bright  sun, — and  stood  as  one  amazed. 

Gray  mists  were  rolling,  rising,  vanishing; 

The   woodlands    glistened   with   their   jewelled 

crowns ; 
Far  off  the  mellow  bells  began  to  ring 

For  matins  in  the  half-awakened  towns. 

The  conflict  of  the  Present  and  the  Past, 
The  ideal  and  tke  actual  in  our  life, 

As  on  a  field  of  battle  held  me  fast, 

While  this  world  and  the  next  world  were  at 
strife. 

For,  as  the  valley  from  its  sleep  awoke, 
I  saw  the  iron  horses  of  the  steam 

Toss  to  the  morning  air  their  plumes  of  smoke, 
And  woke,  as  one  awaketh  from  a  dream. 

HENRY  WADSWOBTH  LONGFELLOW. 


CAPUA 


CAPUA 

Capua  was  supposed  to  take  its  name  from  be- 
ing the  caput,  or  head  city>  of  the  southern  Etrus- 
can confederacy. 

FIRST  of  old  of  Oscan  towns ! 
Prize  of  triumphs,  pearl  of  crowns ; 
Half  a  thousand  years  have  fled, 
Since  arose  thy  royal  head, 
Splendour  of  the  Lucumoes. 

Tuscan  fortress,  doomed  to  feel 
Sharpest  edge  of  Samnite  steel, 
Flashing  down  the  Liris  tide ; 
Re-arisen,  in  richer  pride, 
Cynosure  of  Italy! 

Let  the  Gaurian  echoes  say 
How,  with  Rome,  we  ruled  the  fray ; 
Till  the  fatal  field  was  won 
By  the  chief  who  slew  his  son, 
'Neath  the  vines  of  Vesulus. 
283 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Siren  city,  where  the  plain 
Glitters  twice  with  golden  grain, 
Twice  the  bowers  of  roses  blow, 
Twice  the  grapes  and  olives  flow, 
Thou  wilt  chain  the  conqueror; 

Home  of  war-subduing  eyes, 
Shining  under  softest  skies, 
Gleaming  to  the  silver  sea, 
Liber,  Venus,  strive  for  thee, 
Empress  of  Ausonia ! 

Glorious  in  thy  martial  bloom, 
Glorious  still  in  storm  and  gloom, 
We  thy  chiefs  who  dare  to  die 
Raise  again  thy  battle-cry, — 
Charge  with  Capuan  chivalry ! 

JOHN  NICHOL. 


NAPLES 

ODE  TO  NAPLES 
I 

I  STOOD  within  the  city  disinterred, 

And  heard  the  autumnal  leaves  like  light  foot- 
falls 

Of  spirits  passing  through  the  streets,  and  heard 
The  Mountain's  slumberous  voice  at  intervals 

Thrill  through  those  roofless  halls: 
The  oracular  thunder  penetrating  shook 

The  listening  soul  in  my  suspended  blood ; 
I  felt  that  Earth  out  of  her  deep  heart  spoke, — 
I  felt,  but  heard  not.     Through  white  columns 

glowed 

The  isle-sustaining  Ocean  flood, 
A  plane  of  light  between  two  heavens  of  azure ; 
Around  me  gleamed  many  a  bright  sepulchre 
Of  whose  pure  beauty,  Time,  as  if  his  pleasure 
Were  to  spare  Death,  had  never  made  erasure ; 
But  every  living  lineament  was  clear 
As  in  the  sculptor's  thought ;  and  there 
The  wreaths  of  stony  myrtle,  ivy  and  pine, 

Like  winter  leaves  o'ergrown  by  moulded  snow, 
Seemed  only  to  move  and  grow 

Because  the  crystal  silence  of  the  air 
285 


£86       THEOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Weighed  on  their  life ;  even  as  the  power  divine, 
Which  then  lulled  all  things,  brooded  upon  mine. 

II 

Then  gentle  winds  arose, 

With  many  a  mingled  close 
Of  wild  JEolian  sound  and  mountain  odour  keen; 

And  where  the  Baian  ocean 

Welters  with  air-like  motion, 

Within,  above,  around  its  bowers  of  starry  green, 
Moving  the  sea-flowers  in  those  purple  caves, 
Even  as  the  ever-stormless  atmosphere 

Floats  o'er  the  Elysian  realm, 
It  bore  me ;  like  an  angel,  o'er  the  waves 
Of  sunlight,  whose  swift  pinnace  of  dewy  air 

No  storm  can  overwhelm. 

I  sailed  where  ever  flows 

Under  the  calm  Serene 

A  spirit  of  deep  emotion, 

From  the  unknown  graves 

Of  the  dead  kings  of  melody. 
Shadowy  Aornus  darkened  o'er  the  helm 
The  horizontal  ether ;  heaven  stript  bare 
Its  depths  over  Elysium,  where  the  prow 
Made  the  invisible  water  white  as  snow ; 
From  that  Typhaen  mount,  Inarime, 
There  streamed  a  sunlit  vapour,  like  the  standard 

Of  some  ethereal  host ; 

Whilst  from  all  the  coast, 


NAPLES  £87 

Louder  and  louder,  gathering  round,  there  wan- 
dered 

Over  the  oracular  woods  and  divine  sea 

Prophesyings  which  grew  articulate. 

They  seize  me, — I  must  speak  them; — be  they 
fate! 

Ill 

Naples,  thou  Heart  of  men,  which  ever  pantest 

Naked,  beneath  the  lidless  eye  of  heaven ! 
Elysian  City,  which  to  calm  enchantest 

The  mutinous  air  and  sea !  they  round  thee,  even 

As  sleep  round  Love,  are  driven, — 

Metropolis  of  a  ruined  Paradise 

Long  lost,  late  won,  and  yet  but  half  regained ! 
Bright  Altar  of  the  bloodless  sacrifice, 

Which  armed  Victory  offers  up  unstained 

To  Love,  the  flower-enchained ! 
Thou  which  wert  once,  and  then  didst  cease  to  be, 
Now  art,  and  henceforth  ever  shalt  be,  free, 

If  hope,  and  truth,  and  justice  can  avail. 
Hail,  hail,  all  hail ! 


IV 

Great  Spirit,  deepest  Love ! 
Which  rulest  and  dost  move 

All  things  which  live  and  are,  within  the  Italian 
shore ; 


288       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Who  spreadest  heaven  around  it, 

Whose  woods,  rocks,  waves,  surround  it ; 
Who  sittest  in  thy  star,  o'er  Ocean's  western  floor ; 

Spirit  of  beauty !  at  whose  soft  command 
The  sunbeams  and  the  showers  distil  its  foison 

From  the  Earth's  bosom  chill; 
O,  bid  those  beams  be  each  a  blinding  brand 
Of  lightning !  bid  those  showers  be  dews  of  poison ! 

Bid  the  Earth's  plenty  kill! 

Bid  thy  bright  Heaven  above, 

Whilst  light  and  darkness  bound  it, 

Be  their  tomb  who  planned 

To  make  it  ours  and  thine ! 
Or,  with  thine  harmonising  ardours  fill 
And  raise  thy  sons,  as  o'er  the  prone  horizon 
Thy  lamp  feeds  every  twilight  wave  with  fire ! 
Be  man's  high  hope  and  unextinct  desire 
The  instrument  to  work  thy  will  divine! 
Then  clouds  from  sunbeams,  antelopes  from  leop- 
ards, 

And  frowns  and  fears  from  thee, 

Would  not  more  swiftly  flee, 
Than  Celtic  wolves  from  the  Ausoni an  shepherds. 

Whatever,  Spirit,  from  thy  starry  shrine 

Thou  yieldest  or  withholdest,  O,  let  be 

This  city  of  thy  worship,  ever  free! 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


NAPLES  289 

STANZAS 

WRITTEN    IN    DEJECTION    NEAR    NAPLES 

THE  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 

The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 

The  purple  noon's  transparent  might; 
The  breath  of  the  moist  earth  is  light, 

Around  its  uriexpanded  buds ; 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight, 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods, 
The  city's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  solitude's. 

I  see  the  deep's  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  sea-weeds  strown; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers,  thrown; 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone, 

The  lightning  of  the  noontide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 

Arises  from  its  measured  motion, 
How  sweet !  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emotion. 

Alas !  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 
Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 

Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth, 
The  sage  in  meditation  found, 


290       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

And  walked  with  inward  glory  crowned, — 
Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure. 

Others  I  see  whom  these  surround ; 

Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure ; 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild, 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are ; 
I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 

And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne,  and  yet  must  bear, 

Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 

My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

Some  might  lament  that  I  were  cold, 
As  I  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone, 
Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old, 

Insults  with  this  untimely  moan ; 
They  might  lament, — for  I  am  one 

Whom  men  love  not, — and  yet  regret, 
Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 

Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set, 
Will  linger,  though  enjoyed,  like  joy  in  memory 
yet. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


NAPLES 


PALM  SUNDAY:  NAPLES 

BECAUSE  it  is  the  day  of  Palms, 

Carry  a  palm  for  me, 

Carry  a  palm  in  Santa  Chiara, 

And  I  will  watch  the  sea ; 

There  are  no  palms  in  Santa  Chiara 

To-day  or  any  day  for  me. 

I  sit  and  watch  the  little  sail 

Lean  side-ways  on  the  sea, 

The  sea  is  blue  from  here  to  Sorrento 

And  the  sea-wind  comes  to  me, 

And  I   see  the  white  clouds  lift  from  Sorrento 

And  the  dark  sail  lean  upon  the  sea. 

I  have  grown  tired  of  all  these  things, 
And  what  is  left  for  me? 
I  have  no  place  in  Santa  Chiara, 
There  is  no  peace  upon  the  sea; 
But  carry  a  palm  in  Santa  Chiara, 
Carry  a  palm  for  me. 

ARTHUR  SYMONS. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

A  NIGHT  IN  NAPLES 

THIS  is  the  one  night  in  all  the  year 
When  the  faithful  of  Naples  who  love  their  priest 
May  find  their  faith  and  their  wealth  increased; 
For  just  as  the  stroke  of  midnight  is  here, 

Those  who  with  faithful  undoubting  mind 
Their  "Aves"  mutter,  their  rosaries  tell, 
They  without  doubt  shall  a  recompence  find ; 
Yea,  their  faith  indeed  shall  profit  them  well. 

Therefore,  to-night,  in  the  hot  thronged  street 
By  San  Gennaro's,  the  people  devout, 
With  banner,  and  relic,  and  thurible  meet, 
With  some  sacred  image  to  marshal  them  out. 

For  a  few  days  hence,  the  great  lottery 

Of  the  sinful  city  declared  will  be, 

And  it  may  be  that  Aves  and  Paters  said 

Will  bring  some  aid  from  the  realms  of  the  dead. 

And  so  to  the  terrible  place  of  the  tomb 
They  issue,  a  pitiful  crowd,  through  the  gloom, 
To  where  all  the  dead  of  the  city  decay, 
Waiting  the  trump  of  the  judgment  day. 

For  every  day  of  the  circling  year 

Brings  its  own  sum  of  corruption  here ; 

Every  day  has  its  great  pit,  fed 

With  its  dreadful  heap  of  the  shroudless  dead. 


NAPLES  293 

And  behind  a  grated  rust-eaten  door, 
Marked  each  with  their  fated  month  and  day, 
The  young  and  the  old,  who  in  life  were  poor, 
Fester  together  and  rot  away. 

Silence  is  there,  the  silence  of  death, 

And  in  silence  those  poor  pilgrims  wearily  pace, 

And    the    wretched    throng,    pitiful,    holding    its 

breath, 
Comes  with  shambling  steps  to  the  dreadful  place. 

Till    before    these    dark   portals,    the   muttering 

crowd 

Breaks  at  length  into  passionate  suffrages  loud, 
Waiting  the  flickering  vapour  thin, 
Bred  of  the  dreadful  corruption  within. 

And  here  is  a  mother  who  kneels,  not  in  woe, 
By  the  vault  where  her  child  was  flung  months  ago ; 
And  there  is  a  strong  man  who  peers  with  dry  eyes 
At  the  mouth  of  the  gulph  where  his  dead  wife  lies. 

Till  at  last,  to  reward  them,  a  faint  blue  fire, 
Like  the  ghost  of  a  soul,  flickers  here  or  there 
At  the  gate  of  a  vault,  on  the  noisome  air, 
And  the  wretched  throng  has  its  low  desire ; 

And  with  many  a  praise  of  favouring  saint, 

And  curses  if  any  refuses  to  heed, 

Full  of  low  hopes  and  of  sordid  greed, 

To  the  town  they  file  backward,  weary  and  faint. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

And  a  few  days  hence,  the  great  lottery 
Of  the  sinful  city  declared  will  be, 
And  a  number  thus  shewn  to  those  sordid  eyes, 
May,  the  saints  being  willing,  attain  the  prize. 

Wherefore  to  Saint  and  Madonna  be  said, 

All  praise  and  laud,  and  the  faithful  dead! 

*  #  * 

It  was  long,  long  ago,  in  far-off  Judaea, 
That  they  slew  Him  of  old,  whom  these  slay  to- 
day; 

They  slew  Him  of  old,  in  far-off  Judaea, — 
It  is  long,  long  ago ;  it  was  far,  far  away ! 

LEWIS  MORRIS. 


NAPLES 

DELIGHTFUL  city  of  Parthenope, 

Still  the  soft  airs  that  fan  thee  seem  enchanted; 

By  song  and  beauty  crescent  shores  still  haunted 

Along  thy  bright  bay,  once  the  siren's  sea ! 

Well  I  remember,  gazing  now  on  thee, 

The   wishful   dreams,   with   which   my   childhood 

panted, 

Of  charms,  in  volumes  of  dumb  Latin  vaunted, 
Or  vowelled  in  rich  Italian  melody. 


NAPLES  295 

From  Capri's  rocky  isle,  where  ruins  grey 
The  memory  of  the  first  proud  Caesars  rear, 
To  where  Misenum  overlooks  the  bay, — 
Rome's  galley-navy  used  to  anchor  near, — 
The  shades  of  yore,  the  lights  of  yesterday, 
Hallow  each  wall  and  wave  and  headland  here ! 
WILLIAM  HAMILTON  GIBSON. 


MT.  VESUVIUS 


VESUVIUS 

VESUVIO,  covered  with  the  fruitful  vine, 
Here  flourished  once,  and  ran  with  floods  of  wine, 
Here  Bacchus  oft  to  the  cool  shades  retired, 
And  his  own  native  Nisa  less  admired; 
Oft  to  the  mountain's  airy  tops  advanced, 
The  frisking  Satyrs  on  the  summits  danced ; 
Alcides  here,  here  Venus  graced  the  shore, 
Nor  loved  her  favourite  Lacedsemon  more. 
Now  piles  of  ashes,  spreading  all  around, 
In  undistinguished  heaps  deform  the  ground, 
The  gods  themselves  the  ruined  seats  bemoan, 
And  blame  the  mischiefs  that  themselves  have  done. 

MARTIAL. 
Tr.  Joseph  Addison. 


VESUVIUS 

I 

A  WREATH  of  light-blue  vapour,  pure  and  rare, 
Mounts,  scarcely  seen  against  the  bluer  sky, 
In  quiet  adoration,  silently, 
296 


MT.  VESUVIUS  297 

Till  the  faint  currents  of  the  upper  air 

Dislimn  it,  and  it  forms,  dissolving  there, 

The  dome,  as  of  a  palace,  hung  on  high 

Over  the  mountain ;  underneath  it  lie 

Vineyards  and  bays  and  cities,  white  and  fair. 

Might  we  not  think  this  beauty  would  engage 

All  living  things  unto  one  pure  delight? 

O,  vain  belief !  for  here,  our  records  tell, 

Rome's   understanding   tyrant  from  men's   sight 

Hid,  as  within  a  guilty  citadel, 

The  shame  of  his  dishonourable  age. 

n 

As  when  unto  a  mother,  having  chid 

Her  child  in  anger,  there  have  straight  ensued 

Repentings  for  her  quick  and  angry  mood, 

Till  she  would  fain  see  all  its  traces  hid 

Quite  out  of  sight, — even  so  has  Nature  bid 

Fair  flowers,  that  on  the  scarred  earth  she  has 

strewed, 

To  blossom,  and  called  up  the  taller  wood 
To  cover  what  she  ruined  and  undid. 
O,  and  her  mood  of  anger  did  not  last 
More  than  an  instant,  but  her  work  of  peace, 
Restoring  and  repairing,  comforting 
The  Earth,  her  stricken  child,  will  never  cease: 
For  that  was  her  strange  work,  and  quickly  past ; 
To  this  her  genial  toil  no  end  the  years  shall  bring. 


#98       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

III 

That  her  destroying  fury  was  with  noise 
And  sudden  uproar;  but  far  otherwise, 
With  silent  and  with  secret  ministries, 
Her  skill  of  renovation  she  employs: 
For  Nature,  only  loud  when  she  destroys, 
Is  silent  when  she  fashions ;  she  will  crowd 
The  work  of  her  destruction,  transient,  loud, 
Into  an  hour,  and  then  long  peace  enjoys. 
Yea,  every  power  that  fashions  and  upholds 
Works  silently, — all  things,  whose  life  is  sure, 
Their  life  is  calm ;  silent  the  light  that  moulds 
And  colours  all  things ;  and  without  debate 
The  stars,  which  are  forever  to  endure, 
Assume  their  thrones  and  their  unquestioned  state. 
RICHARD  CHENEVIX  TRENCH. 


VESUVIUS 

DREAD,  desolate  Mount !  when  first  I  gazed  at  thee 
Lifting  thy  shadowy  cone  across  the  sea» 
Thou  seemedst  a  remembered  picture  drawn 
By  boyhood's  vision  in  some  Southern  dawn, 
Twin  spirit  with  the  purple  clouds  that  rest 
In  hazy  light  above  thy  towering  crest. 
But  when  I  climbed  thy  bare  and  burning  side, 
And  felt  the  scorching  of  that  fiery  tide 


MT.  VESUVIUS  299 

Bubbling  from  thy  hot  lips,  and  saw  the  blight 
Of  thy  dread  power  spread  through  the  dusky 

night, 

Far  down  the  black  slopes  to  the  ocean's  skiffs, — 
When  I  beheld  the  drear  and  savage  cliffs 
Towering  around  me  black  and  sulphur-drenched, 
The  burning  cracks  whose  heat  is  never  quenched, 
I  knew  thou  wast  that  desolating  fount 
Whose  fearful  flowing  centuries  might  recount, 
Whose  fiery  surge  beat  down,  the  marble  pride 
Of  stainless  fanes  that  slept  too  near  thy  side, 
When  fated  cities  of  renowned  fame 
Fluttered  like  moths  toward  thy  devouring  flame. 

Motionless  Victor!  Lord  of  fiery  doom! 
On  thy  dark  helmet  waves  thy  smoky  plume ; 
Wrapt  in  thy  purple  like  a  Syrian  king, 
While  crouches  at  thy  feet  the  shrinking  Spring, 
Thy  fallen  archangel's  throne  befits  thee, — thou 
Who  canst  not  bless,  but  curse.    Thy  blasted  brow 
Scowls  with  dull  eye  of  hate  that  nightly  broods 
On  dire  events  in  thy  drear  solitudes. 
Tireless  thou  burnest  on  from  age  to  age. 
No  winter's  rains,  though  yearly  they  assuage 
Thy  hot  cheeks,  where  the  lava  tear-drops  run 
Down  the  black  furrows, — no  joy-giving  sun 
Of  balmy  spring  clothing  thy  ruggedness 
With  colours  of  all  depth  and  tenderness, — 
No  clouds  of  summer  smiling  on  thy  sleep, — 


300       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

No  autumn  vintage  round  thy  fire-cloven  steep, — 

Have  charmed  away  the  awful  mystery 

That  burns  within  a  heart  no  eye  can  see. 

In  the  bright  day  thou  mak'st  the  blue  heavens 

dun, 

Blotting  with  blasphemous  smoke  the  blessed  sun. 
No  calmest  starlit  night  can  still  thy  curse 
Breathed  upward  through  the  silent  universe. 

Last  night  we  saw  thee  shrouded  in  a  cloak 

Of  dull  grey  rain-clouds.     From  thy  crater  broke 

Swift   blazing   spasms   of   flame   that   glimmered 

through 

The  awful  gloom  of  mist  whose  pallid  hue 
Half  hid  thy  form,  now  dark,  and  flashing  now 
Like  the  dread  oracles  on  Sinai's  brow. 
Prophetic  mount !     Thou  seemedst  then  to  be 
Wrapt  in  a  vision  of  futurity, 
Fearfully  whispering  words  of  joy  or  moan, 
Whose  sense  was  hidden  in  thy  heart  alone. 

Nor  seer  alone  of  future  days  o'ercast, 
But  true  historian  of  the  blighted  past, 
Buried  beneath  thy  feet  thou  chainest  deep 
Treasures  of  beauty  in  enchanted  sleep: 
Temples  and  streets  and  quaintly  painted  halls, 
Vases  and  cups  for  antique  festivals, 
Fair  statues  in  whose  undulating  line 
The  Grecian  artist  lavished  dreams  divine ; 


MT.  VESUVIUS  301 

Altars  that  burned  to  gods  of  mighty  name, 

Until  thy  greater  sacrificial  flame 

Swallowed  the  lesser.     Princely  art  and  power 

Sank  blood-warm  in  its  grave  in  that  dark  hour 

When  thou,  wild  despot,  even  to  the  sea 

Whose  fevered  waves  shrank  from  the  fear  of  thee 

Meeting  thy  fire-kiss,  didst  send  forth  thy  hosts, 

Cloud-myrmidons  of  death,  flooding  the  coasts 

That  smiled  around  thy  blue  enamelled  bay. 

Years  rolled.     The  cities  in  their  dungeons  lay 
Embalmed  in  lovely  death.     Long  ages  crept. 
Flowers  and  luxuriant  vines  above  them  slept, 
And  still  not  half  the  wealth  beneath  that  lies 
Revisits  the  sweet  light  of  summer  skies. 
So  thou,  stern  chronicler,  dialest  thy  dates, 
Not   by   the   ephemeral   growth   and    change   of 

states, 

But  thunderous  blasts  upheaving  from  below, 
That  melt  to  mist  the  winter's  hoarded  snow, 
By  thy  deep  beds  of  fire,  thy  strata  old, 
And  the  slow  creep  of  vegetable  mould. 

Yet  fearful  as  thou  towerest,  seen  so  near, 
In  thy  environment  of  blight  and  fear, 
Beautiful  art  thou  burning  from  afar 
In  liquid  fire, — as  though  a  melting  star 
Had  fallen  upon  thee  from  the  sky  profound, 
And   streamed   adown   thy   sides   which,   gemmed 
around, 


302       THROUGH  ITALY  VTITH  THE  POETS 

Sparkle  like  some  dark  Abyssinian  queen 

Robed  in  her  amethyst  and  ruby  sheen. 

E'en  now  I  see  thee  nightly  from  this  bower 

Where  the  red  rose  and  the  white  orange-flower 

Mingle  their  odours.     Looking  o'er  the  sea, 

Thy  shadowy  cone  of  solemn  mystery 

Shoots  downward  in  the  waves  a  softened  gleam, 

Until,  by  beauty  lulled,  I  can  but  dream 

Of  thee  as  of  each  gentle  lovely  thing 

That  in  my  path  lies  daily  blossoming. 

CHRISTOPHER  PEARSE  CRANCH. 


CASTELLAMARE 


AT  CASTELLAMARE 

AWAKE,  my  Myrto,  with  the  birth  of  day, 
Forth  to  the  meadow  fare  this  first  of  May. 

Not  yet  the  sun  with  his  o'ermastering  might 
Hath  dried  the  pearlets  upon  bud  and  bloom ; 

Still  in  pale  skies  trembles  the  star  of  night, 
Morn's  herald  star,  and  all  the  glorious  gloom 
Is  waiting  for  the  dawn  to  re-illume 

Her  eyes  of  fire  above  the  burning  bay. 

Awake,  my  Myrto,  with  the  birth  of  day, 
Forth  to  the  meadow  fare  this  first  of  May. 

See  in  thick  pleached  garden-alleys  green 

How  rose  by  rose  deep-sunken  drinks  the  dew: 

Sheathed  in  soft  sleep  they  hide  their  silken  sheen, 

Nor    know    the    passion    of    fierce    light    that 

through 
Their  crimson  spheres  will  shoot  when  morn  is 

new: 
So  sleep  not  we  when  love  invites  to  play. 


304       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Awake,  my  Myrto,  with  the  birth  of  day, 
Forth  to  the  meadow  fare  this  first  of  May. 

Ah,  foolish  rose !  She  hath  one  little  hour 

To  cast  her  sweetness  on  the  amorous  prime ; 

The  kiss  of  noon  her  girlhood  will  deflower, 
The  wanton  bee  about  her  lap  will  climb, 
And  birds  will  sing  their  clear  love-laden  rhyme, 

Till  night  descends  that  taketh  all  away. 

Awake,  my  Myrto,  with  the  birth  of  day, 
Forth  to  the  meadow  fare  this  first  of  May. 
JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS. 


POMPEII 


POMPEII 

KNOW'ST   thou  yon   stream,   its  veiny   current 

threading 

Between  the  willow  banks  it  loves,  that  makes 
Its  low  voice  heard  by  thee  as  thou  art  treading 
That  green  bank  thoughtfully ;  the  aspen  shakes 
Its  boughs  above,  the  deep  sky  gives  and  takes 
Its  azure  from  it,  and  that  river  keeps 
Its  name,  while  states  have  vanished  as  the  flakes 
Of  snow,  sun-melted :  Sarno  to  the  deeps 
Rolls  on,  its  waves  no  more  the  painted  trireme 
sweeps. 

A  rising  mound  shuts  out  the  path,  the  wind 
Waves  the  wild  fig-tree  o'er  its  flower-crowned 

crest : 

Enter,  a  world  is  opened  from  behind, 
The  dead  are  disinterred  from  Nature's  breast, 
The  buried  raised  from  their  sepulchral  rest ; 
Living  Pompeii  again  behold ! 
The  vision  in  material  life  confessed; 
Time  hath  the  archives  of  the  past  unrolled, 
Their  household  gods  unveiled,  and  life  domestic 

told. 

305 


306       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

The  City  of  the  Dead  to  light  restored, 
And  resurrection,  day  again  began, 
The  law  of  fate  suspended  to  record 
The  greatness  and  the  nothingness  of  man: 
Decay  arrested  and  oblivion's  ban 
From  wrecks  that  rise  on  life's  cold  shore  alone : 
Here,  moralist!  thou  seest  thy  bounded  span: 
Truth  stands  embodied,  and  with  audible  tone 
Points  to  the  house,  thy  tomb,  the  dust  that  is 
thine  own. 

Lo,  the  Pompeian  Forum!  haunt  of  rest, 
And  recreation  when  the  twilight  sky 
Hued  with  its  beauty  the  delighted  west : 
When  the  sea's  rising  breath  refreshingly 
Gladdened  each  heart,  and  soothed  each  wearied 

eye 

Oppressed  and  fevered  with  the  heats  of  day : 
Moments  when  life  was  felt,  when  the  light  sigh 
Was  pleasure,  impulses  that  all  obey, 
As  Nature  o'er  the  heart  asserts  her  healthful 

sway. 

*  *  # 

The  Street  of  Tombs!  the  dwelling-places  rent 
Of  those  who  felt  not  fires  that  o'er  them  swept, 
Engulfed  within  a  living  monument ; 
But  in  those  hollow  niches  where  they  slept, 
Yea,  in  their  urns  the  fiery  vapor  crept, 
The  mountain's  ashes  and  the  human  dust 


POMPEII  307 

Together  heaped:  the  dead  no  longer  kept 
Their  couches,  forth  by  earth  convulsive  thrust 
From  that  last  home  where  love  the  loved  ones  still 
intrust. 

The  house  of  Diomed,  the  pleasant  place 
Of  the  refined  patrician,  where  the  hand 
Of  luxury  ruled,  and  Art  traced  forms  of  grace 
Which  from  time  hidden  could  decay  withstand ; 
Playthings  that  shall  again  resolve  to  sand, 
Opened  to  skyey  influence  and  air, 
All  that  his  vanity  or  fondness  planned ; 
The  law  of  nature  it  again  doth  share, 
Decay,  change,  time,  and  death,  too  long  evaded 

there. 

*  *  * 

The  town  was  hushed,  save  where  a  faint  shout 

came 

From  the  far-distant  amphitheatre, 
Air  glowed  as  from  a  sullen  furnace  flame : 
The  trees  dropped  wan,  no  breath  a  leaf  to  stir ; 
Each  house  was  noiseless  as  a  sepulchre, 
And  the  all-sickly  weight  by  nature  shown 
Pressed  heaviest  on  human  hearts ;  they  were 
All  silent,  each  foreboding  dared  not  own 
Fears,  the  advancing  shadows  of  an  ill  unknown. 

Behold   the    Mountain!   words    withheld   while 
spoken, 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

In  vision  centering  the  astounded  mind: 

The  mists  that  erewhile  swathed  his  front  are 

broken, 

Hurled  upward  as  by  some  imprisoned  wind 
Earth  could  no  more  within  her  caverns  bind ; 
Lo,   scroll-like    forth  in   scattered  wreathings 

driven 
From  his  cleft  brow,  grey  clouds  that  disen- 

twined 
From  their  black  trunk  shot  forth  like  branches 

riven, 
Opening  their  pine-like  shape  in  the  profound  of 

heaven ! 

Statues  of  fear,  mute,  motionless  they  stood : 
The  mountain  that  had  slept  a  thousand  years 
Wakes  from  his  slumber !  lo,  yon  sable  flood 
Of  eddying  cloud  its  giant  shape  uprears : 
They  gaze,  yet  fly  not,  who  had  linked  with 

fears 

Vesuvius  robed  in  ever  green  attire? 
But  lo,  each  moment  wilder,  fiercer  nears 
The  unfolding  canopy,  its  skirts  respire 
Lightnings  around,  away,  yon  lurid  mass  is  fire! 

JOHN  EDMUND  READE, 


POMPEII  309 


A  GIRL  OF  POMPEII 

A  PUBLIC  haunt  they  found  her  in: 

She  lay  asleep,  a  lovely  child ; 

The  only  thing  left  undefiled 
Where  all  things  else  bore  taint  of  sin. 

Her  charming  contours  fixed  in  clay 

The  universal  law  suspend, 

And   turn   Time's    chariot   back,   and   blend 
A  thousand  years  with  yesterday. 

A  sinless  touch,  austere  yet  warm, 

Around  her  girlish  figure  pressed, 
Caught  the  sweet  imprint  of  her  breast, 

And  held  her,  surely  clasped,  from  harm. 

Truer  than  work  of  sculptor's  art 

Comes  this  dear  maid  of  long  ago, 
Sheltered  from  woeful  chance,  to  show 

A  spirit's  lovely  counterpart, 

And  bid  mistrustful  men  be  sure 

That  form  shall  fate  of  flesh  escape, 
And,  quit  of  earth's  corruptions,  shape 

Itself,  imperishably  pure. 

EDWARD  SANFORD  MARTIN, 


810       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


POMPEII 

THE  giant  slept,  and  pigmies  at  his  feet, 

Like  children  moulding  monuments  of  snow, 
Piled  stone  on  stone,  mapped  market-place  and 
street, 

And  saw  their  temples  column-girdled  grow: 
And,  slowly  as  the  gradual  glaciers  grope 

Their  way  resistless,  so  Pompeii  crept, 
Year  by  long  year,  across  the  shelving  slope 

Toward  the  sea : — and  still  the  giant  slept. 

Belted  with  gardens,  where  the  shivered  glass 

Of  falling  fountains  broke  the  pools'  repose, 
As  they  had  been  asleep  upon  the  grass, 

A  myriad  villas  stretched  themselves  and  rose: 
And  down  her  streets,  grown  long  and  longer  still, 

Grooving    the    new-laid    stones,    the    chariots 

swept, 
And  of  a  sudden  burst  upon  the  hill 

Vast  amphitheatres.    Still  the  giant  slept. 

With  liquid  comment  of  the  wooing  doves, 

With  wanton  flowers,   sun-conjured   from  the 
loam, 

Grew  the  white  city  of  illicit  loves, 
Hostess  of  all  the  infamy  of  Rome! 


POMPEII  311 

A  marble  harlot,  scornful,  pale,  and  proud, 
Her  Circean  court  on  ruin's  brink  she  kept, 

Lulled  by  the  adoration  of  the  crowd 
To  lethal  stupor.     Still  the  giant  slept. 

Incense-encircled,  pacing  day  by  day 

Through  temple-courts  reechoant  with  song, 
Sin-stunned  and  impercipient,  on  her  way 

She  dragged  her  languid  loveliness  along. 
With  lips  whereon  a  dear  damnation  hung, 

With  dark,  dream-clouded  eyes  that  never  wept, 
Flawlessly  fair,  the  faulty  fair  among, 

She   kissed   and    cursed: — and    still   the    giant 
slept. 

Here,  for  a  mute  reminder  of  her  shame, 

Her  ruins  gape  out  baldly  from  their  tomb ; 
A  city  naked,  shorn  of  all  but  name, 

Blinking  and  blind  from  all  her  years  of  gloom : 
A  beldam  who  was  beauty,  crying  amis 

With  leprous  lips  that  mouth  their  prayers  in 

vain; 
Her  deaf  destroyer  to  her  outstretched  palms 

Respondeth  not.     The  giant  sleeps  again ! 
GUY  WETMOEE  CAEEYL. 


SORRENTO 


SORRENTO 

SORRENTO  !  Bright  star !  Land 

Of  myrtle  and  vine, 
I  come  from  a  far  land 

To  kneel  at  thy  shrine; 
Thy  brows  wear  a  garland, 

O,  weave  one  for  mine! 

Her  mirror  thy  city 

Fair  finds  in  the  sea, — 
A  youth  sings  a  pretty 

Song,  tempered  with  glee, — 
The  mirth  and  the  ditty 

Are  mournful  to  me. 

Ah,  sea  boy,  how  strange  is 

The  carol  you  sing ! 
Let  Psyche,  who  ranges 

The  gardens  of  Spring, 
Remember  the  changes 

December  will  bring. 

FREDERICK  LOCKER. 
312 


SORRENTO  SIS 

SORRENTO 

MIDWAY  betwixt  the  present  and  the  past, 
Naples  and  Paestum,  look !  Sorrento  lies : 

Ulysses  built  it,  and  the  Syrens  cast 

Their  spell  upon  the  shore,  the  sea,  the  skies. 

If  thou  hast  dreamed,  in  any  dream  of  thine, 
How  Paradise  appears,  or  those  Elysian 

Immortal  meadows  which  the  gods  assign 
Unto  the  pure  of  heart, — behold  thy  vision ! 

These  waters,  they  are  blue  beyond  belief, 

Nor  hath  green   England   greener  fields   than 
these : 

The  sun, — 't  is  Italy's ;  here  winter's  brief 
And  gentle  visit  hardly  chills  the  breeze. 

Here  Tasso  dwelt,  and  here  inhaled  with  spring 
The  breath  of  passion  and  the  soul  of  song. 

Here  young  Boccaccio  plumed  his  early  wing, 
Thenceforth  to  soar  above  the  vulgar  throng. 

All  charms  of  contrast — every  nameless  grace 
That  lives  in  outline,  harmony,  or  hue — 

So  heighten  all  the  romance  of  the  place, 
That  the  rapt  artist  maddens  at  the  view, 

And  then  despairs,  and  throws  his  pencil  by, 
And  sits  all  day  and  looks  upon  the  shore 

And  the  calm  ocean  with  a  languid  eye, 

As  though  to  labour  there  were  a  law  no  more* 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Voluptuous  coast!  no  wonder  that  the  proud 
Imperial  Roman  found  in  yonder  isle 

Some  sunshine  still  to  gild  Fate's  gathering  cloud, 
And  lull  the  storm  of  conscience  for  a  while. 

What  new  Tiberius,  tired  of  lust  and  life, 

May  rest  him  here  to  give  the  world  a  truce, — 

A  little  truce  from  perjury  and  strife, 
Justice  adulterate  and  power's  misuse? 

Might  the  gross  Bourbon, — he  that  sleeps  in  spite 

Of  red  Vesuvius  ever  in  his  eye, 
Yet,  if  he  wake,  should  tremble  at  its  light, 

As  't  were  heaven's  vengeance,  promised  from 
on  high, — 

Or  that  poor  gamester,  of  so  cunning  play, 
Who,  up  at  last,  in  Fortune's  fickle  dance, 

Aping  the  mighty  in  so  mean  a  way, 

Makes  now  his  dice  the  destinies  of  France, — 

Might  they,  or  any  of  Oppression's  band, 
Sit  here  and  learn  the  lesson  of  the  scene, 

Peace  might  return  to  many  a  bleeding  land, 
And  men  grow  just  again,  and  life  serene. 

THOMAS  WILLIAM  PARSONS. 


SORRENTO  815 

WRITTEN  IN  TASSO'S  HOUSE  AT 
SORRENTO 

O  LEONORA,  here  thy  Tasso  dwelt, 
Secure,  ere  yet  thy  beauty  he  had  seen: 
Here  with  bright  face  and  unterrestrial  mien 
He  walked,  ere  yet  thy  shadow  he  had  felt. 
From  that  green  rock  he  watched  the  sunset  melt, 
On  through  the  waves ;  yon  cavern  was  his  screen, 
When  first  those  hills,  which  gird  the   glowing 

scene, 
Were  thronged  with  heavenly   warriors,   and  he 

knelt 

To  hail  the  vision !  Syren  baths  to  him 
Were  nothing ;  Pagan  grot,  or  classic  fane, 
Or  glistening  pavement  seen  through  billows  dim. 
Far,  far  o'er  these  he  gazed  on  Judah's  plain ; 
And   more   than    manhood   wrought    was    in    the 

boy, — 
Why  did  the  stranger  meddle  in  his  joy? 

AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


SORRENTO 

THE  midnight,  thick  with  cloud, 
Hangs  o'er  the  city's  jar, 

The  spirit's  shell  is  in  the  crowd, 
The  spirit  is  afar ; 


316       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Far,  where  in  shadowy  gloom 
Sleeps  the  dark  orange  grove, 

My  sense  is  drunk  with  its  perfume, 
My  heart  with  love. 

The  slumberous,  whispering  sea 

Creeps  up  the  sands  to  lay 
Its  sliding  bosom  fringed  with  pearls 

Upon  the  rounded  bay. 
List!  all  the  trembling  leaves 

Are  rustling  overhead, 
Where  purple  grapes  are  hanging  dark 

On  the  trellised  loggia  spread. 

Far  off,  a  misted  cloud, 

Hangs  fair  Inarime. 
The  boatman's  song  from  the  lighted  boat 

Rises  from  out  the  sea. 
We  listen, — then  thy  voice 

Pours  forth  a  honeyed  rhyme; 
Ah!  for  the  golden  nights  we  passed 

In  our  Italian  time. 

There  is  the  laugh  of  girls 

That  walk  along  the  shore, 
The  marinaio  calls  to  them 

As  he  suspends  his  oar. 
Vesuvius  rumbles  sullenly, 

With  fitful  lurid  gleam, 


SORRENTO  317 

The  background  of  all  Naples  life, 
The  nightmare  of  its  dream. 

O  lovely,  lovely  Italy, 

I  yield  me  to  thy  spell! 
Reach  the  guitar,  my  dearest  friend, 

We'll  sing,  "Home !  fare  thee  well!" 
O  world  of  work  and  noise, 

What  spell  hast  thou  for  me? 
The  siren  Beauty  charms  me  here 

Beyond  the  sea. 

WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY. 


LOOKING  BACK 

(At  Sorrento,  March,  1864.) 

WHY  murmur,  why  look  back,  my  soul? 
Six  long  years  like  an  ocean  roll 

Between  thy  youth  and  thee. 
Thou  hast  the  present;  keep  that  fast: 
Trust  not  the  future ;  drown  the  past : 

What  thou  art,  learn  to  be. 

Deep  orange  groves  by  Naples'  shore, 
Warm  slopes  with  laughing  olives  hoar, 

The  myrtle  by  the  bay : 
Bright  flowers  that  in  the  thickets  blow, 
Soft  airs  that  melt  the  mountain  snow, 

Showers  weeping  silver  spray: 


318       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

All  these  thou  hast ;  and  dost  thou  sigh 
For  Clifton's  oft  beclouded  sky, 

Her  woods  and  barren  down ; 
The  tawny  strait,  the  narrow  stream, 
The  cliff  where  thou  wast  wont  to  dream 

The  tumult  of  the  town ; 
The  old  Cathedral,  quaint  and  grey, 
Where  stately  service,  day  by  day, 

From  choir  and  organ  pealed; 
The  little  face,  loved  long  ago, 
The  thrilling  treble,  faint  and  low, 

The  pain  its  music  healed? 
The  memory  of  that  sacred  spring 
Still  stirs  my  soul  to  sorrowing; 

She  cannot  choose  but  sigh. 
I  dwelt  as  in  a  magic  isle 
With  fairy  fancies  to  beguile 

My  life's  monotony. 

Love  was  the  wand  I  swayed  at  will: 
Not  Ischia's  slope  nor  Capri's  hill 

Have  joys  so  fair  and  free, 
As  in  that  brief  enchanted  spring 
From  every  humble  household  thing 

I  fashioned  for  my  glee. 

Too  soon  it  fled ;  and  year  by  year 
Came  slowly  trooping  care  and  fear 

Spent  powers  and  clouded  faith: 
A  sorrow  to  my  spirit  clung — 


SORRENTO  819 

A  pang,  not  mine,  whose  poison  stung 
The  soul  it  could  not  scathe. 

Nor  health  nor  hope  remained ;  I  fled 
From  land  to  land;  my  weary  head 

In  strangers'  homes  I  laid: 
And  now,  by  fair  Sorrento's  bay, 
I  sit  and  sigh  this  sweet  spring  day, 

Beneath  the  olive  shade. 

The  birds  may  murmur  as  they  will. 
The  kids  may  leap  upon  the  hill, 

The  wavelets  on  their  sand: 
But  I  must  bear  an  even  heart, 
Proof  against  pain  or  passion's  smart; 

Unstirred,  unshaken,  stand. 

Once  more  I  will  begin  to  live ; 
The  future  much  may  have  to  give; 

Her  face  I  cannot  see; 
But  feel  as  though  the  past  had  been 
Played  out  unto  its  utmost  scene, 

The  stage  swept  clear  and  free. 

Bid  memory  with  each  rolling  year 
Fold  fainter  wings,  and  disappear; 

Then  wrap  thy  soul  in  strength: 
There's  rest  beneath  the  weltering  wave; 
There's  rest  in  heaven  though  storms  may  rave; 

Thou  too  shalt  rest  at  length. 

JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS. 


CAPRI 


CAPRI 

THERE  is  an  isle,  kissed  by  a  smiling  sea, 

Where  all  sweet  confluents  meet :  a  thing  of  heaven, 

A  spent  aerolite,  that  well  may  be 

The  missing  sister  of  the  starry  Seven. 

Celestial  beauty  nestles  at  its  knee, 

And  in  its  lap  is  naught  of  earthly  leaven. 

'T  is  girt  and  crowned  with  loveliness;  its  year, 

Eternal  summer ;  winter  comes  not  near. 

'T  is  small,  as  things  of  beauty  ofttimes  are, 

And  in  a  morning  round  it  you  may  row, 

Nor  need  a  tedious  haste  your  bark  debar 

From  gliding  inwards  where  the  ripples  flow 

Into  strange  grots  whose  roofs  are  azure  spar, 

Whose  pavements  liquid  silver.     Mild  winds  blow 

Around  your  prow,  and  at  your  keel  the  foam, 

Leaping  and  laughing,  freshly  wafts  you  home. 

They  call  the  island  Capri, — with  a  name 
Dulling  an  airy  dream,  just  as  the  soul 
Is  clogged  with  body  palpable, — and  Fame 
Hath  long  while  winged  the  word  from  pole  to 
pole. 

320 


CAPEI  321 

Its  human  story  is  a  tale  of  shame, 
Of  all  unnatural  lusts  a  gory  scroll, 
Record  of  what,  when  pomp  and  power  agree, 
Man  once  hath  been,  and  man  again  may  be. 
Terrace  and  slope  from  shore  to  summit  show 
Of  all  rich  climes  the  glad-surrendered  spoil. 
Here  the  bright  olive's  phantom  branches  glow, 
There  the  plump  fig  sucks  sweetness  from  the  soil. 
Mid  odorous  flowers  that  through  the  Zodiac  blow, 
Returning  tenfold  to  man's  leisured  toil, 
Hesperia's  fruit  hangs  golden.     High  in  air, 
The  vine  runs  riot,  spurning  human  care. 

And  flowers  of  every  hue  and  breath  abound, 
Charming  the  sense ;  the  burning  cactus  glows, 
Like  daisies  elsewhere  dappling  all  the  ground, 
And  in  each  cleft  the  berried  myrtle  blows. 
The  playful  lizard  glides  and  darts  around, 
The  elfin  fireflies  flicker  o'er  the  rows 
Of  ripened  grain.     Alien  to  pain  and  wrong, 
Men  fill  the  days  with  dance,  the  nights  with  song. 

ALFRED  AUSTIN. 


THE  AZURE  GROTTO 

I 

BENEATH  the  vine-clad  slopes  of  Capri's  Isle, 
Which  run  down  to  the  margin  of  that  sea 
Whose  waters  kiss  the  sweet  Parthenope, 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

There  is  a  grot  whose  rugged  front  the  while 

Frowns  only  dark  where  all  is  seen  to  smile. 

But  enter,  and  behold!  surpassing  fair 

The  magic  sight  that  meets  your  vision  there, — 

Not  heaven !  with  all  its  broad  expanse  of  blue, 

Gleams  coloured  with  a  sheen  so  rich,  so  rare, 

So  changing  in  its  clear,  translucent  hue; 

Glassed  in  the  lustrous  wave,  the  walls  and  roof 

Shine  as  does  silver  scattered  o'er  the  woof 

Of  some  rich  robe,  or  bright  as  stars  whose  light 

Inlays  the  azure  concave  of  the  night. 


II 


You  cannot  find  throughout  this  world,  I  ween, 
Waters  so  fair  as  those  within  this  cave, 
Colour  like  that  which  flashes  from  the  wave, 
Or  which  is  steeped  in  such  cerulean  sheen 
As  here  gleams  forth  within  this  grotto's  screen. 
And  when  the  oar  the  boatman  gently  takes 
And  dips  it  in  the  flood,  a  fiery  glow, 
Ruddy  as  phosphor,  stirs  in  depths  below; 
Each  ripple  into  burning  splendour  breaks, 
As  though  some  hidden  fires  beneath  did  lie 
Waiting  a  touch  to  kindle  into  flame, 
And  shine  in  radiance  on  the  dazzled  eye, 
As  sparkling  up  from  wells  of  light  they  came, 
To  make  this  grot  a  glory  far  and  nigh. 

CHARLES  D,  BELL, 


AMALFI 


AT  AMALFI 

IT  is  the  mid-May  sun  that  ray  less  and  peacefully 

gleaming, 
Out  of  its  night's  short  prison  this  blessed  of  lands 

is  redeeming; 
It  is  the  fire  evoked  from  the  hearts  of  the  citron 

and  orange, 
So  that  they  hang,  like  lamps  of  the  day,  trans- 

lucently  beaming ; 
It  is  the  veinless  water,   and  air  unsoiled  by  a 

vapour, 
Save  what,  out  of  the  fulness  of  life,  from  the 

valley  is  streaming; 
It  is  the  olive  that  smiles,  even  he,  the  sad  growth 

of  the  moonlight, 
Over  the  flowers,  whose  breasts  triple-folded  with 

odours  are  teeming ; — 
Yes,  it  is  these  bright  births  that  to  me  are  a  shame 

and  an  anguish; 
They  are  alive  and  awake, — I  dream,  and  know  I 

am  dreaming; 
I  cannot  bathe  my  soul  in  this  ocean  of  passion  and 

beauty, — 


324*       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Not  one  dewdrop  is  on  me  of  all  that  about  me  is 

streaming ; 
O,  I  am  thirsty  for  life, — I  pant  for  the  freshness 

of  nature, 
Bound  in  the  world's  dead  sleep,  dried  up  by  its 

treacherous  seeming. 

LORD  HOUGHTON. 


AMALFI 

SWEET  the  memory  is  to  me 

Of  a  land  beyond  the  sea, 

Where  the  waves  and  mountains  meet, 

Where  amid  her  mulberry-trees 

Sits  Amalfi  in  the  heat, 

Bathing  ever  her  white  feet 

In  the  tideless  summer  seas. 

In  the  middle  of  the  town, 

From  its  fountains  in  the  hills, 

Tumbling  through  the  narrow  gorge, 

The  Canneto  rushes  down, 

Turns  the  great  wheels  of  the  mills, 

Lifts  the  hammers  of  the  forge. 

?T  is  a  stairway,  not  a  street, 
That  ascends  the  deep  ravine, 
Where  the  torrent  leaps  between 
Rocky  walls  that  almost  meet. 


AMALFI  525 

Toiling  up  from  stair  to  stair 
Peasant  girls  their  burdens  bear ; 
Sunburnt  daughters  of  the  soil, 
Stately  figures  tall  and  straight, 
What  inexorable  fate 
Dooms  them  to  this  life  of  toil? 

Lord  of  vineyards  and  of  lands, 
Far  above  the  convent  stands. 
On  its  terraced  walk  aloof 
Leans  a  monk  with  folded  hands, 
Placid,  satisfied,  serene, 
Looking  down  upon  the  scene 
Over  wall  and  red-tiled  roof; 
Wondering  unto  what  good  end 
All  this  toil  and  traffic  tend, 
And  why  all  men  cannot  be 
Free  from  care  and  free  from  pain, 
And  the  sordid  love  of  gain, 
And  as  indolent  as  he. 

Where  are  now  the  freighted  barks 
From  the  marts  of  east  and  west; 
Where  the  knights  in  iron  sarks 
Journeying  to  the  Holy  Land, 
Glove  of  steel  upon  the  hand, 
Cross  of  crimson  on  the  breast? 
Where  the  pomp  of  camp  and  court? 
Where  the  pilgrims  with  their  prayers? 


326       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Where  the  merchants  with  their  wares, 
And  their  gallant  brigantines 
Sailing  safely  into  port 
Chased  by  corsair  Algerines? 


Vanished  like  a  fleet  of  cloud, 
Like  a  passing  trumpet-blast, 
Are  those  splendours  of  the  past, 
And  the  commerce  and  the  crowd ! 
Fathoms  deep  beneath  the  seas 
Lie  the  ancient  wharves  and  quays, 
Swallowed  by  the  engulfing  waves ; 
Silent  streets  and  vacant  halls, 
Ruined  roofs  and  towers  and  walls; 
Hidden  from  all  mortal  eyes 
Deep  the  sunken  city  lies: 
Even  cities  have  their  graves! 

This  is  an  enchanted  land! 
Round  the  headlands  far  away 
Sweeps  the  blue  Salernian  bay 
With  its  sickle  of  white  sand: 
Further  still  and  furthermost 
On  the  dim  discovered  coast 
Psestum  with  its  ruins  lies, 
And  its  roses  all  in  bloom 
Seem  to  tinge  the  fatal  skies 
Of  that  lonely  land  of  doom. 


AMALFI 

On  his  terrace,  high  in  air, 
Nothing  doth  the  good  monk  care 
For  such  worldly  themes  as  these. 
From  the  garden  just  below 
Little  puffs  of  perfume  blow, 
And  a  sound  is  in  his  ears 
Of  the  murmur  of  the  bees 
In  the  shining  chestnut-trees; 
All  the  landscape  seems  to  swoon 
In  the  happy  afternoon  ; 
Slowly  o'er  his  senses  creep 
The  encroaching  waves  of  sleep, 
And  he  sinks,  as  sank  the  town, 
Unresisting,  fathoms  down, 
Into  caverns  cool  and  deep  ! 


Walled  about  with  drifts  of  snow, 
Hearing  the  fierce  north-wind  blow, 
Seeing  all  the  landscape  white, 
And  the  river  cased  in  ice, 
Comes  this  memory  of  delight, 
Comes  this  vision  unto  me 
Of  a  long-lost  Paradise, 
In  the  land  beyond  the  sea. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


AT  AMALFI 

HERE  might  I  rest  for  ever ;  here, 
Till  death,  inviolate  of  fear, 

Descended  cloud-like  on  calm  eyes, 
Enjoy  the  whisper  of  the  waves 
Stealing  around  those  azure  caves, 

The  gloom  and  glory  of  the  skies ! 

Great  mother,  Nature,  on  thy  breajst 
Let  me,  unsoiled  by  sorrow,  rest, 

By  sin  unstirred,  by  love  made  free : 
Full-tired  am  I  by  years  that  bring 
The  blossoms  of  the  tardy  spring 

Of  wisdom,  thine  adept  to  be. 

In  vain  I  pray :  the  wish  expires 
Upon  my  lip,  as  fade  the  fires 

Of  youth  in  withered  veins  and  weak ; 
Not  mine  to  dwell,  the  neophyte 
Of  Nature,  in  her  shrine  of  light, 

But  still  to  strive  and  still  to  seek. 

I  have  outgrown  the  primal  mirth 
That  throbs  in  air  and  sea  and  earth; 

The  world  of  worn  humanity 
Reclaims  my  care ;  at  ease  to  range 
Those  hills,  and  watch  their  interchange 

Of  light  and  gloom,  is  not  for  me. 


AMALFI  329 

Dread  Pan,  to  thee  I  turn:  thy  soul 
That  through  the  living  world  doth  roll, 

Stirs  in  our  heart  an  aching  sense 
Of  beauty,  too  divinely  wrought 
To  be  the  food  of  mortal  thought, 

For  earth-born  hunger  too  intense. 


Breathless  we  sink  before  thy  shrine ; 
We  pour  our  spirits  forth  like  wine ; 

With  trembling  hands  we  strive  to  lift 
The  veil  of  airy  amethyst, 
That  shrouds  thy  godhood  like  a  mist ; 

Then,  dying,  forth  to  darkness  drift 


Thy  life  around  us  laughs,  and  we 
Are  merged  in  its  immensity ; 

Thy  chanted  melodies  we  hear, 
The  marrying  chords  that  meet  and  kiss 
Between  two  silences ;  but  miss 

The  meaning,  though  it  seems  so  clear. 

From  suns  that  sink  o'er  silent  seas, 
From  myrtles  near  the  mountain  breeze 

Shedding  their  drift  of  scented  snow, 
From  fleeting  hues,  from  sounds  that  swoon 
On  pathless  hills,  from  night  and  noon, 

The  inarticulate  passions  flow, 


330       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

That  are  thy  minions,  mighty  Pan! 
No  priest  hast  thou ;  no  muse  or  man 

Hath  ever  told,  shall  ever  tell, 
But  each  within  his  heart  alone, 
Awe-struck  and  dumb  hath  learned  to  own, 

The  burden  of  thine  oracle. 

JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS. 


P^ESTUM 


PJESTUM 

Lo,  far  on  the  horizon's  verge  reclined 
A  temple,  reared  as  on  a  broken  throne : 
The  sun's  red  rays  in  lurid  light  declined 
O'er  clouds  that  mutter  forth  a  thunder-tone, 
Gleam  athwart  each  aerial  column  shown 
Like  giants  standing  on  a  sable  sky ; 
What  record  tells  it  in  that  desert  lone? 
Resting  in  solitary  majesty 
Eternal  Paestum  there  absorbs  the  heart  and  eye. 

Pause  here,  the   desolate  waste,  the  lowering 
heaven, 

The    sea-fowl's    dang,    the    gray    mist   hurry- 
ing by, 

The  altar  fronting  ye  with  brow  unriven, 

In  isolation  of  sublimity, 

Mates  with  the  clouds,  the  mountains,  and  the 
sky: 

But  the  sea  breaks  no  more  against  his  shrine, 

Hurled  from  his  base  the  ocean-deity ; 

His  worshippers  have  passed  and  left  no  sign. 
The  Shaker  of  the  Earth  no  more  is  held  divine ! 
881 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

There  like  some  Titan  throned  in  his  retreat 
Of  deserts,  the  declining  sun's  last  rays 
Falling  round  him  on  his  majestic  seat, 
Each  limb  dilated  in  the  twilight  haze 
Of  the  red  distance  darkening  on  the  gaze : 
An  image  whose  august  tranquillity 
The  presence  of  unconscious  power  betrays, 
Whose  co-mates  are  the  hills,  the  rocks,  the  sea, 
Even  so  the  awestruck  soul  reposing  dwells  on 
thee! 

And  there  thou  standest  stern,  austere,  sublime, 
Strength  nakedly  reposing  at  thy  base, 
Making  a  mockery  of  the  assaults  of  time ; 
Earthquakes   have   heaved,   storms    shook,   the 

lightning's  trace 

Left  the  black  shadows  time  shall  not  efface, 
And  the  hot  levin  dinted  where  it  fell ! 
But  on  thy  unperturbed  and  steadfast  face 
Is  stamped  the  impress  of  the  unchangeable, 
That  fixed  forever  there  thy  massive  form  shall 

dwell. 

Spirit  of  grey  Antiquity !  enthroned 
With  solitude  and  silence  here,  proclaim 
Thou,    brooding     o'er    thy    altar-place,     who 

owned, 
Who     reared,    that    mightiest    temple?     from 

whence  came 


PJSSTUM  333 

The  children  of  the  sea?  what  age,  what  name, 
Bore  they  who  chose  this  plain  their  home  to 

be? 

Arena  meted  for  the  race  of  fame : 
For  gods  to  applaud  the  deeds  of  liberty, 
Knowledge,  and  glorious  art,  that  flows  but  from 
the  free. 

JOHN  EDMUND  READE. 


PJESTUM 

THERE,  down  Salerno's  bay, 
In  deserts  far  away, 
Over  whose  solitudes 
The  dread  malaria  broods, 
No  labour  tills  the  land, — 
Only  the  fierce  brigand, 
Or  shepherd,  wan  and  lean, 
O'er  the  wide  plains  is  seen. 
Yet  there,  a  lovely  dream, 
There  Grecian  temples  gleam, 
Whose  form  and  mellowed  tone 
Rival  the  Parthenon. 
The  Sybarite  no  more 
Comes  hither  to  adore, 
With  perfumed  offering, 
The  ocean  god  and  king. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

The  deity  is  fled 
Long  since,  but,  in  his  stead, 
The  smiling  sea  is  seen, 
The  Doric  shafts  between ; 
And  round  the  time-worn  base 
Climb  vines  of  tender  grace, 
And  Paestum's  roses  still 
The  air  with  fragrance  fill. 

CHEISTOPHEE  PEAESE  CEANCH, 


POSILIPO 


THE    VOYAGE    AROUND    POSILIPO 


I  CAME  from  Naples  at  break  of  day 
And  cast  my  cares  in  the  shimmering  bay. 
The  heaving  row-boat  gently  rocked  me, 
And  on  the  left  Vesuvius  mocked  me, 
Transforming  his  ill-starred,  sinister  steam 
To  faery  haze  in  the  first  sunbeam. 
I  turned  from  the  giant  to  see  the  city 
Awake  and  make  herself  look  pretty, 
Adorning  her  head  with  a  crown  of  castles, 
And  being  bathed  by  the  waves,  her  vassals. 
I  followed  the  hem  of  her  garment  damp 
Toward  the  outermost  verge  of  her  regal  camp. 
Toledo-noises  died  away ; 

I  only  heard  my  oars  at  play. 

***** 

And  where  a  hill  was  all  in  bloom 
I  raised  my  hat  to  Virgil's  tomb. 
335 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

II 

I  slipped  along  the  seashore.     Bright 

Posilipo  upon  my  right. 

Leftward  a  lovely  island  lay 

Before  the  ships  that  left  the  bay. 

When  I  saw  Capri  I  grew  serious, 

For  thither  the  vile  wolf  Tiberius 

Once  fled  from  Rome  in  fierce  disgust, 

To  wallow  in  his  horrid  lust. 

I  promptly  turned  my  eyes  away 

To  where  a  bed  of  flowers  lay, 

Tufting  a  headland  gorgeously, 

And  fringed  by  an  unruffled  sea. 

Huge  boulders  lent  their  harsh  effect, 

Steep  hills  leaped  from  the  water,  decked 

With  bright  straw  here,  and  there  with  vines ; 

With  palm-trees  here  and  there  with  pines. 

Now  scattered  houses  came  to  view, 

The  new  made  old  and  the  old  made  new. 

Then,  ruins  rising  from  the  sea, 

Vocal  of  dead  pomposity, 

Where  Romans  once  built  on  the  strand, 

Unsatisfied  with  the  solid  land. 

FRIEDERICH  RUECKERT. 
Tr.  Robert  Haven  Schauffler. 


POSILIPO  337 

VIRGIL'S  TOMB 

"Cecini  pascua,  rura,  duces" 
ON  an  olive-crested  steep 

Hanging  o'er  the  dusty  road, 

Lieth  in  his  last  abode, 
Wrapped  in  everlasting  sleep, 

He  who  in  the  days  of  yore 

Sang  of  pastures,  sang  of  farms, 
Sang  of  heroes  and  their  arms, 

Sang  of  passion,  sang  of  war. 

When  the  lark  at  dawning  tells, 

Herald-like,  the  coming  day, 

And  along  the  dusty  way 
Comes  the  sound  of  tinkling  belLs, 

Rising  to  the  tomb  aloft, 

While  some  modern  Corydon 
Drives  his  bleating  cattle  on 

From  the  stable  to  the  croft: 

Then  the  soul  of  Virgil  seems 
To  awaken  from  its  dreams, 
To  sing  again  the  melodies 
Of  which  he  often  tells, — 
The  music  of  the  birds, 
The  lowing  of  the  herds, 
The  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

ROBERT  CAMEEON  ROGERS. 


338       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


VIRGIL'S  TOMB 

WE  seek,  as  twilight  saddens  into  gloom, 

A  poet's  sepulchre ;  and  here  it  is, — 

The  summit  of  a  tufa  precipice. 

Ah !  precious  every  drape  of  myrtle  bloom 

And  leaf  of  laurel  crowning  Virgil's  tomb ! 

The  low  vault  entering,  hark!  what  sound  is  this? 

The  night  is  black  beneath  us  in  the  abyss, 

Through  one  damp  port  disclosed,  as  from  earth's 

womb, 
That  rumbling  sound  appalls  us!    Through  the 

steep 

Is  hewn  Posilipo's  most  marvellous  grot ; 
And  to  the  Prince  of  Roman  bards,  whose  sleep 
Is  in  this  singular  and  lonely  spot, 
Doth  a  wild  rumour  give  a  wizard's  name, 
Linking  a  tunnelled  road  to  Maro's  fame ! 

WILLIAM  HAMILTON  GIBSON. 


POZZUOLI 


THE  AMPHITHEATRE  AT  POZZUOLI 

THE  strife,  the  gushing  blood,  the  mortal  throe, 
With  scenic  horrors,  filled  that  belt  below, 
And  where  the  polished  seats  were  round  it  raised, 
Worse  spectacle!  the  pleased  spectators  gazed. 
Such  were  the  pastimes  of  times  past !    O  shame ! 

O  infamy !  that  men  who  drew  the  breath 
Of  freedom,  and  who  shared  the  Roman  name, 

Should  so  corrupt  their  sports  with  pain  and 
death. 

HENRY  TAYLOR. 


389 


BAJA  (BALE) 


BAI.E 

THERE  Baiae  sees  no  more  the  joyous  throng; 
Her  bank  all  beaming  with  the  pride  of  Rome : 
No  generous  vines  now  bask  along  the  hills, 
Where  sport  the  breezes  of  the  Tyrrhene  main : 
With  baths  and  temples  mixed,  no  villas  rise ; 
Nor,  art  sustained  amid  reluctant  waves, 
Draw  the  cool  murmurs  of  the  breathing  deep : 
No  spreading  ports  their  sacred  arms  extend: 
No  mighty  moles  the  big  intrusive  storm, 
From  the  calm  station,  roll  resounding  back. 
An  almost  total  desolation  sits, 
A  dreary  stillness  saddening  o'er  the  coast; 
Where,  when  soft  suns  and  tepid  winters  rose, 
Rejoicing  clouds  inhaled  the  balm  of  peace; 
Where  citied  hill  to  hill  reflected  blaze ; 
And  where,  with  Ceres,  Bacchus  wont  to  hold 
A  genial  strife.    Her  youthful  form,  robust, 
E'en  Nature  yields  ;  by  fire  and  earthquake  rent : 
Whole  stately  cities  in  the  dark  abrupt 
Swallowed  at  once,  or  vile  in  rubbish  laid, 
340 


BAJA  (BALE)  841 

A  nest  for  serpents ;  from  the  red  abyss 
New  hills,  explosive,  thrown ;  the  Lucrine  lake 
A  reedy  pool:  and  all  to  Cuma's  point, 
The  sea  recovering  his  usurped  domain, 
And  poured  triumphant  o'er  the  buried  dome. 

JAMES  THOMSON. 


RUINS  OF  CORNELIA'S  HOUSE 

I  TURN  from  ruins  of  imperial  power, 
Tombs  of  corrupt  delight,  old  walls  the  pride 
Of  statesmen  pleased  for  respite  brief  to  hide 
Their  laurelled  foreheads  in  the  Muses'  bower, 
And  seek  Cornelia's  home.    At  sunset's  hour 
How  oft  her  eyes,  that  wept  no  more,  descried 
Yon  purpling  hills !    How  oft  she  heard  that  tide 
Fretting  as  now  low  cave  or  hollow  tower ! 
The  mother  of  the  Gracchi !    Scipio's  child ! — 
'T  was  virtue  such  as  hers  that  built  her  Rome ! 
Never  towards  it  she  gazed !   Far  off  her  home 
She  made,  like  her  great  father  self-exiled. 
Woe  to  the  nations  when  the  souls  they  bare, 
Their  best  and  bravest,  choose  their  rest  elsewhere 

AUBREY  DE  VERE. 


348       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


BALE 

BUT  Baiae,  soft  retreat  in  days  of  yore, 
Recalls  our  step,  and  woos  us  to  its  shore. 
Heroes  and  emperors  trod  this  smiling  strand, 
And  art,  song,  pleasure  reigned,  a  fairy  band. 
Here  Csesar  stooped  his  pride  to  garden  bowers, 
And  stern-browed  Marius  wreathed  his  sword  with 

flowers ; 

Here  rich  Lucullus  gorgeous  banquets  spread, 
And  Pollio  time  in  chains  of  roses  led : 
Steeped  in  warm  bliss  seemed  ocean,  earth,  and 

sky, 
Life  one  rich  dream  of  love  and  luxury. 

NICHOLAS  MICHELL. 


CUMA  (CUM^J) 


CUM.E 

WEEPING  he  spoke,  then  gave  his  fleet  the  reins, 

Until  at  length  Euboean  Cumse's  shores 

They  reach.     Seaward  the  prows  are  turned;  the 

ships 
Fast  anchored,  and  the  curved  sterns  fringe  the 

beach. 

On  the  Hesperian  shore  the  warriors  leap 
With  eager  haste.    Some  seek  the  seminal  flame 
Hid  in  the  veins  of  flint ;  some  rob  the  woods, 
The  dense  abode  of  beasts,  and  rivulets 
Discover.    But  the  good  ^Eneas  seeks 
The  heights  o'er  which  the  great  Apollo  rules, 
And  the  dread  cavern  where  the  Sibyl  dwells, 
Revered  afar,  whose  soul  the  Delian  god 
Inspires  with  thought  and  passion,  and  to  her 
Reveals  the  future.    And  now  Dian's  groves 
They  enter,  and  the  temple  roofed  with  gold. 
The  story  goes,  that  Daedalus,  who  fled 
From  Minos,  dared  to  trust  himself  with  wings 
Upon  the  air,  and  sailed  in  untried  flight 
Toward  the  frigid  Arctic,  till  at  length 
He  hovered  over  the  Cumaean  towers. 

843 


344       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Here  first  restored  to  earth,  he  gave  to  thee, 
Phoebus,  his  oar-like  wings,  a  sacred  gift, 
And  built  a  spacious  temple  to  thy  name. 

VIRGIL. 
Tr.  C.  P.  Cranch. 


THE  SIBYL'S  CAVE  AT  CUMA 

CUMEAN  Sibyl!  from  thy  sultry  cave 
Thy  dark  eyes  level  with  the  sulphurous  ground 
Through  the  gloom  flashing,  roll  in  wrath  around. 
What  see  they?     Coasts    perpetual    earthquakes 

pave 

With  ruin ;  piles  half  buried  in  the  wave ; 
Wrecks  of  old  times  and  new  in  lava  drowned; — 
And     festive    crowds,     sin-steeped     and    myrtle- 
crowned, 

Like  idiots  dancing  on  a  parent's  grave. 
And  they  foresee.    Those  pallid  lips  with  pain 
Suppress  their  thrilling  whispers.    Sibyl,  spare ! 
Could  Wisdom's  voice  divide  yon  sea,  or  rear 
A  new  Vesuvius  from  its  flaming  plane, 
Futile  the  warning!    Power  despised!  forbear 
To  deepen  guilt  by  counsel  breathed  in  vain ! 

AUBREY  DE  VERB, 


ISCHIA 


INARIME 

Vittoria  Colonna,  after  the  death  of  her  hus- 
band, the  Marchese  di  Pescara,  retired  to  her  cas- 
tle at  Ischia  (Inarime),  and  there  wrote  the  ode 
upon  his  death  which  gained  her  the  title  of 
Divine. 

ONCE  more,  once  more,  Inarime, 
I  see  thy  purple  hills — once  more 

I  hear  the  billows  of  the  bay 

Wash  the  white  pebbles  on  thy  shore. 

High  o'er  the  sea-surge  and  the  sands, 
Like  a  great  galleon  wrecked  and  cast 

Ashore  by  storms,  thy  castle  stands, 
A  mouldering  landmark  of  the  Past. 

Upon  its  terrace-walk  I  see 

A  phantom  gliding  to  and  fro ; 
It  is  Colonna, — it  is  she 

Who  lived  and  loved  so  long  ago. 

Pescara's  beautiful  young  wife, 
The  type  of  perfect  womanhood, 

Whose  life  was  love,  the  life  of  life, 

That  time  and  change  and  death  withstood. 
345 


84*6      THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

• 

For  death,  that  breaks  the  marriage  band 

In  others,  only  closer  pressed 
The  wedding-ring  upon  her  hand 

And  closer  locked  and  barred  her  breast. 

She  knew  the  life-long  martyrdom, 
The  weariness,  the  endless  pain 

Of  waiting  for  some  one  to  come 
Who  nevermore  would  come  again. 

The  shadows  of  the  chestnut-trees, 
The  odor  of  the  orange  blooms, 

The  song  of  birds,  and,  more  than  these, 
The  silence  of  deserted  rooms; 

The  respiration  of  the  sea, 

The  soft  caresses  of  the  air, 
All  things  in  nature  seemed  to  be 

But  ministers  of  her  despair ; 

Till  the  o'erburdened  heart,  so  long 
Imprisoned  in  itself,  found  vent 

And  voice  in  one  impassioned  song 
Of  inconsolable  lament. 

Then  as  the  sun,  though  hidden  from  sight, 
Transmutes  to  gold  the  leaden  mist, 

Her  life  was  interfused  with  light, 

From  realms  that,  though  unseen,  exist. 


ISCHIA 

Inarime !    Inarime ! 

Thy  castle  on  the  crags  above 
In  dust  shall  crumble  and  decay, 

But  not  the  memory  of  her  love. 

HENKY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


REGGIO  (RHEGIUM) 


ON  IBYCUS 

RHEGIUM,  whose  feet  Trinacria's  straitened  sea 
Laves  ever,  verge  extreme  of  Italy, 
Honoured  be  thou  in  song  for  having  laid 
Under  thy  leafy  elms'  embowering  shade 
The  dust  of  Ibycus,  the  bard  beloved, 
The  bard  of  Love,  wko  all  its  joys  had  proved; 
Mantle  his  grave  with  ivy, — round  it  plant 
Reeds,  to  send  forth  the  shepherd's  rural  chant. 

UNCERTAIN. 
Tr.  W.  Hay. 

REGGIO 

AND  shouldst  thou  doubt  the  visible  prophecies 
Of  Nature,  in  her  forms  embodying 
Imaginative  dreams,  when  the  sun  lies 
On  Reggio's  shore,  go  mark  its  ruins  fling 
Their  shadows  on  the  stream,  till  gathering, 
Embattled  towers  rise  slowly  from  the  deep, 
Pillars  and  castled  walls,  gates  opening 
On  serried  armies,  marshalled  horse  that  leap 
Along  the  flying  plains,  and  charging  squadrons 
sweep. 

848 


REGGIO    (RHEGIUM)  349 

And  cliffs  cloud-capped,  deep  vales,  white  herds 

far  seen, 
And  shepherds  with  their  flocks,  and  mountains 

bare, 

Looking  repose :  lo !  in  the  silvery  sheen 
Floating  above  the  wave,  they  melt  to  air, 
Reflection  but  of  ruins !  woven  there 
From  mist  and  shadow,  but  they  finger  forth 
Truths  that  oracular  Nature  doth  declare 
To  thee,  fallen  Italy!  regenerate  birth 
Thus  shall  be  thine  from  death,  freedom  and  pris- 
tine worth. 

JOHN  EDMUND  READE. 


THE  RIVER  BUSENTO 


THE  GRAVE  IN  THE  BUSENTO 

BY  Cosenza,  songs  of  wail  at  midnight  wake  Busen- 

to's  shore, 
O'er  the  wave  resounds  the  answer,  and  amid  the 

vortex'  roar! 

Valiant  Goths,  like  specters,  steal  along  the  banks 

with  hurried  pace, 
Weeping  over  Alaric  dead,  the  best,  the  bravest 

of  his  race. 

Ah !  too  soon,  from  home  so  far,  was  it  their  lot  to 

dig  his  grave, 
While  still  o'er  his  shoulders  flowed  his  youthful 

ringlets'  flaxen  wave. 

On  the  shore  of  the  Busento  ranged,  they  with 

each  other  vied, 
As  they  dug  another  bed  to  turn  the  torrent's 

course  aside. 

In  the  twaveless  hollow  turning  o'er  and  o'er  the 

sod,  the  corse 
Deep  into  the  earth  they  sank,  in  armour  clad, 

upon  his  horse. 

350 


THE  RIVER  BUSENTO  351 

Covered  then  with  earth  again  the  horse  and  rider 

in  the  grave, 
That  above  the  hero's  tomb  the  torrent's  lofty 

plants  might  wave. 

And,  a  second  time  diverted,  was  the  floor  con- 
ducted back, 

Foaming  rushed  Busento's  billows  onwards  in  their 
wonted  track. 

And  a  warrior  chorus  sang,  "Sleep  with  thy  hon- 
ours, hero  brave ! 

"Ne'er  shall  foot  of  lucre-lusting  Roman  desecrate 
thy  grave!" 

Far  and  wide  the  songs  of  praise  resounded  in  the 

Gothic  host; 

Bear  them  on,  Busento's  billow,  bear  them  on  from 
coast  to  coast! 

AUGUST  VON  PLATEN. 
Tr.  Alfred  Baskerville. 


TARANTO  (TARENTUM) 


TARENTUM 

AND  next  Tarentum's  bay, 
Named,  if  report  be  true,  from  Hercules, 
Is  seen;  and  opposite  lifts  up  her  head 
The  goddess  of  Lacinia ;  and  the  heights 
Appear  of  Caulon,  and  the  dangerous  rocks 
Of  Sylaceum.     Then  far  off  we  see 
Trinacrian  ^Etna  rising  from  the  waves; 
And  now  we  hear  the  ocean's  awful  roar, 
The  breakers  dashing  on  the  rocks,  the  moan 
Of  broken  voices  on  the  shore.     The  deeps 
Leap  up,  and  sand  is  mixed  with  boiling  foam. 
"Charybdis !"  cries  Anchises ;  "lo,  the  cliffs, 
The  dreadful  rocks  that  Helenus  foretold! 
Save  us, — bear  off,  my  men !    With  equal  stroke 
Bend  to  your  oars !"  No  sooner  said  than  done. 
With  groaning  rudder  Palinurus  turns 
The  prow  to  the  left,  and  the  whole  cohort  strain 
With  oar  and  sail,  and  seek  a  southern  course. 
The  curving  wave  one  moment  lifts  us  up 
Skyward,  then  sinks  us  down  as  in  the  shades 
Of  death.     Three  times  amid  their  hollow  caves 
853 


TAEANTO  (TARENTUM)  353 

The  cliffs  resound ;  three  times  we  saw  the  foam 
Dashed, — that  the  stars  hung  dripping  wet  with 

dew. 

Meanwhile,  abandoned  by  the  wind  and  sun, 
Weary,  and  ignorant  of  our  course,  we  are  thrown 
Upon  the  Cyclops'  shore. 

VIRGIL. 
Tr.  C.  P.  Cranch. 


BRINDISI  (BRUNDISIUM) 


BRUNDISIUM 

UNEQUAL  thus  to  Caesar,  Pompey  yields 

The  fair  dominion  of  Hesperia's  fields : 

Swift  through  Apulia  march  his  flying  powers, 

And  seek  the  safety  of  Brundusium's  towers. 

This  city  a  Dictsean  people  hold, 
Here  placed  by  tall  Athenian  barks  of  old; 
When  with  false  omens  from  the  Cretan  shore, 
Their  sable  sails  victorious  Theseus  bore. 
Here  Italy  a  narrow  length  extends, 
And  in  a  scanty  slip  projected  ends. 
A  crooked  mole  around  the  waves  she  winds, 
And  in  her  folds  the  Adriatic  binds. 
Nor  yet  the  bending  shores  could  form  a  bay, 
Did  not  a  barrier  isle  the  winds  delay, 
And  break  the  seas  tempestuous  in  their  way. 
Huge  mounds   of  rocks  are  placed  by  nature's 

hand, 

To  guard  around  the  hospitable  strand; 
To  turn  the  storm,  repulse  the  rushing  tide, 
And  bid  the  anchoring  bark  securely  ride. 
Hence  Nereus  wide  the  liquid  main  displays, 
And  spreads  to  various  ports  his  watery  ways; 

854 


BRINDISI  (BRUNDISIUM)  355 

Whether  the  pilot  from  Corcyra  stand 
Or  for  Illyrian  Epidamnus'  strand. 
Hither  when  all  the  Adriatic  roars, 
And  thundering  billows  vex  the  double  shores ; 
When  sable  clouds  around  the  welkin  spread, 
And  frowning  storms  involve  Ceraunia's  head ; 
When  white  with  froth  Calabrian  Sason  lies, 
Hither  the  tempest-beaten  vessel  flies. 

LUCAN. 
Tr.  Nicholas  Rowe. 


ANCONA 


POPPIES  IN  THE  WHEAT 

ALONG  Ancona's  hills  the  shimmering  heat, 
A  tropic  tide  of  air,  with  ebb  and  flow- 
Bathes  all  the  fields  of  wheat  until  they  glow 
Like  flashing  seas  of  green,  which  toss  and  beat 
Around  the  vines.     The  poppies  lithe  and  fleet 
Seem  running,  fiery  torchmen,  to  and  fro 
To  mark  the  shore.     The  farmer  does  not  know 
That  they  are  there.     He  walks  with  heavy  feet, 
Counting  the  bread  and  wine  for  autumn's  gain, 
But  I, — I  smile  to  think  that  days  remain 
Perhaps  to  me  in  which,  though  bread  be  sweet 
No  more,  and  red  wine  warm  my  blood  in  vain, 
I  shall  be  glad  remembering  how  the  fleet, 
Lithe  poppies  ran  like  torchmen  with  the  wheat. 
HELEN  FISKE  JACKSON. 


356 


FOSSOMBRONE 


THE  BELLS  OF  FOSSOMBRONE 

UP  the  highlands,  steep  and  stony, 
To  the  valley-wending  throng, 

Rang  the  bells  of  Fossombrone 
Silvery  eve  and  matin  song. 

Rang  they  proud  and  rang  they  peerless, 
Rang  they  with  ecstatic  thrill; 

And  their  music  cheered  the  cheerless, 
Aye ! — 'tis  said  it  healed  the  ill. 

Then  the  Lord  of  Fano  vaunted, 
"Great  are  we,  and  shall  the  dells 

By  rough  mountain  toilers  haunted 
With  their  chimes  outpeal  our  bells?" 

So  upon  a  morning  moany, 

When  the  heavens  were  a-lower, 

Stormed  they  into  Fossombrone, 
Haled  the  bells  from  out  the  tower. 

"When  the  Easter  dawns,"  they  boasted, 
"We  will  ring  our  triumph  wide !" 

And  that  night  they  blithely  toasted 
Fano's  power  and  Fano's  pride. 
357 


358       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Passed  the  year's  young  pilgrim  daughters — 

Days  both  jubilant  and  lorn — 
Till  o'er  Adria's  waste  of  waters, 

Rose-like,  flowered  the  Easter  morn. 

While  the  harbour  shimmered  steely, 
And  the  bloom  of  morning  grew, 

Toward  the  stately  campanile 
Strode  the  ringers,  two  by  two. 

Soared  a  shout  of  acclamation 

Up  as  if  some  Titan  spoke, 
And  with  murmurous  exultation 

Waited  each  the  triumph  stroke. 

Gnarled  muscles  swelled  with  tension 
As  the  ringers  strained  and  bowed; 

Then  a  wave  of  apprehension 
Swept  upon  the  gathered  crowd ; 

For  they  saw  the  bells  wide-swinging, 
Mouths  agape  as  though  to  peal, 

Yet  they  heard  no  sound  down-ringing 
From  the  yawning  throats  of  steel. 

Cried  one  loudly,  "We  should  rue  us 

For  the  tale  this  Easter  tells ! 
Hath  not  Jesus  spoken  to  us 

In  the  silence  of  these  bells? 


FOSSOMBRONE  359 

"Back  with  them  to  Fossombrone !" 

Swiftly  back  their  prize  they  bore, 
And  beneath  the  highlands  stony 

Found  the  bells  their  voice  once  more. 

And  the  men  of  Fano,  chided 

By  the  melody  renewed, 
Clasped  the  hands  of  those  derided, 

Buried  deep  the  olden  feud. 

Seaward  from  the  mountain  valley, 

Heralding  the  happier  times, 
Rang  through  grove  and  olive  alley 

Fossombrone's  peerless  chimes. 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD. 


FANO 


THE    GUARDIAN    ANGEL 

DEAR  and  great  angel,  wouldst  thou  only  leave 
That  child,  when  thou  hast  done  with  him,  for 


me 


Let  me  sit  all  the  day  here,  that  when  eve 

Shall  find  performed  thy  special  ministry 
And  time  come  for  departure,  thou,  suspending 
Thy  flight,  mayst  see  another  child  for  tending, 
Another  still,  to  quiet  and  retrieve. 

Then  I  shall  feel  thee  step  one  step,  no  more, 

From  where  thou  standest  now,  to  where  I  gaze, 
And  suddenly  my  head  be  covered  o'er 

With  those  wings,  white  above  the  child  who 

prays 

Now  on  that  tomb, — and  I  shall  feel  thee  guarding 
Me,  out  of  all  the  world ;  for  me  discarding 

Yon  heaven  thy  home,  that  waits  and  opes  its 
door! 

I  would  not  look  up  thither  past  thy  head 

Because  the  door  opes,  like  that  child,  I  know, 

For  I  should  have  thy  gracious  face  instead, 
Thou  bird  of  God !  and  wilt  thou  bend  me  low 


FANO  361 

Like  him,  and  lay,  like  his,  my  hands  together, 
And  lift  them  up  to  pray,  and  gently  tether 
Me,   as   thy   lamb   there,   with   thy    garment's 
spread? 

If  this  was  ever  granted,  I  would  rest 

My  head  beneath  thine,  while  thy  healing  hands 

Close-covered  both  my  eyes  beside  thy  breast, 
Pressing  the  brain,  which  too  much  thought  ex- 
pands, 

Back  to  its  proper  size  again,  and  smoothing 

Distortion  down  till  every  nerve  had  soothing, 
And  all  lay  quiet,  happy,  and  supprest. 

How  soon  all  worldly  wrong  would  be  repaired ! 

I  think  how  I  should  view  the  earth  and  skies 
And  sea,  when  once  again  my  brow  was  bared 

After  thy  healing,  with  such  different  eyes. 
O  world,  as  God  has  made  it !  all  is  beauty : 
And  knowing  this,  is  love,  and  love  is  duty. 

What  further  may  be  sought  for  or  declared? 

Guercino  drew  this  angel  I  saw  teach 

(Alfred,  dear  friend) — that  little  child  to  pray, 

Holding  the  little  hands  up,  each  to  each 

Pressed  gently, — with  his  own  head  turned  away 

Over  the  earth  where  so  much  lay  before  him 

Of  work  to  do,  though  heaven  was  opening  o'er 

him, 
And  he  was  left  at  Fano  by  the  beach. 


362       THEOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

We  were  at  Fano,  and  three  times  we  went 
To  sit  and  see  him  in  his  chapel  there, 

And  drink  his  beauty  to  our  soul's  content, — 
My  angel  with  me  too;  and  since  I  care 

For  dear  Guercino's  fame  (to  which  in  power 

And  glory  comes  this  picture  for  a  dower, 
Fraught  with  a  pathos  so  magnificent) , 

And  since  he  did  not  work  so  earnestly 

At  all  times,  and  has  else  endured  some  wrong, 

I  took  one  thought  his  picture  struck  from  me, 
And  spread  it  out,  translating  it  to  song. 

My  Love  is  here.     Where  are  you,  dear  old  friend? 

How  rolls  the  Wairoa  at  your  world's  far  end  ? 
This  is  Ancona,  yonder  is  the  sea. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


RIMINI 


RIMINI 

"THE  land  where  I  was  born  sits  by  the  seas, 
Upon  that  shore  to  which  the  Po  descends, 
With  all  his  followers,  in  search  of  peace. 

Love,  which  the  gentle  heart  soon  apprehends, 
Seized  him  for  the  fair  person  which  was  ta'en 
From  me,  and  me  even  yet  the  mode  offends. 

Love,  who  to  none  beloved  to  love  again 

Remits,  seized  me  with  wish  to  please,  so  strong, 
That,  as  thou  seest,  yet,  yet  it  doth  remain. 

Love  to  one  death  conducted  us  along, 

But  Caina  waits  for  him  our  life  who  ended" : 
These  were  the  accents  uttered  by  her  tongue. 

Since  I  first  listened  to  these  souls  offended, 
I  bowed  my  visage,  and  so  kept  it  till — 
"What  think'st  thou?"  said  the  bard;  when  I 
unbended, 

And  recommenced:     "Alas!  unto  such  ill 

How  many  sweet  thoughts,  what  strong  ecsta- 
sies, 
Led  these  their  evil  fortune  to  fulfil!" 

And  then  I  turned  unto  their  side  my  eyes, 
And  said,  "Francesca,  thy  sad  destinies 
Have  made  me  sorrow  till  the  tears  arise. 


364»       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

But  tell  me,  in  the  season  of  sweet  sighs, 
By  what  and  how  thy  love  to  passion  rose, 
So  as  his  dim  desires  to  recognise?" 

Then  she  to  me :     "The  greatest  of  all  woes 
Is  to  remind  us  of  our  happy  days 
In  misery,  and  that  thy  teacher  knows. 

But  if  to  learn  our  passion's  first  root  preys 
Upon  thy  spirit  with  such  sympathy, 
I  will  do  even  as  he  who  weeps  and  says. 

We  read  one  day  for  pastime,  seated  nigh, 
Of  Lancelot,  how  love  enchained  him  too. 
We  were  alone,  quite  unsuspiciously. 

But  oft  our  eyes  met,  and  our  cheeks  in  hue 
All  o'er  discoloured  by  that  reading  were: 
But  one  point  only  wholly  us  o'erthrew ; 

When  we  read  the  long-sighed-f  or  smile  of  her, 
To  be  thus  kissed  by  such  devoted  lover, 
He  who  from  me  can  be  divided  ne'er 

Kissed  my  mouth,  trembling  in  the  act  all  over. 
Accursed  was  the  book  and  he  who  wrote ! 
That  day  no  further  leaf  we  did  uncover. 

While  thus  one  spirit  told  us  of  their  lot, 
The  other  wept,  so  that  with  pity's  thralls 
I  swooned  as  if  by  death  I  had  been  smote, 

And  fell  down  even  as  a  dead  body  falls." 

DANTE. 
Tr.  Lord  Byron. 


RAVENNA 

DANTE 

DANTE  am  I, — Minerva's  son,  who  knew 

With  skill  and  genius  (though  in  style  obscure) 

And  elegance  maternal  to  mature 

My  toil,  a  miracle  to  mortal  view. 

Through  realms  Tartarean  and  celestial  flew 

My  lofty  fancy,  swift-winged  and  secure; 

And  ever  shall  my  noble  work  endure, 

Fit  to  be  read  of  men,  and  angels  too. 

Florence  my  earthly  mother's  glorious  name; 

Step-dame  to  me, — whom  from  her  side  she  thrust, 

Her  duteous   son:  bear   slanderous  tongues   the 

blame ; 

Ravenna  housed  my  exile,  holds  my  dust; 
My  spirit  is  with  Him  from  whom  it  came, — 
A  Parent  envy  cannot  make  unjust. 

GIOVANNI  BOCCACCIO. 
Tr.  Francis  C.  Gray. 


RAVENNA 

OF  all  the  cities  in  Romanian  lands, 
The  chief,  and  most  renowned,  Ravenna  stands, 
Adorned  in  ancient  times  with  arms  and  arts, 
And  rich  inhabitants,  with  generous  hearts. 

JOHN  DRYDEN. 
365 


366       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


RAVENNA 

SWEET  hour  of  twilight !  in  the  solitude 
Of  the  pine  forest,  and  the  silent  shore 

Which  bounds  Ravenna's  immemorial  wood, 

Rooted  where  once  the  Adrian  wave  flowed  o'er 

To  where  the  last  Caesarean  fortress  stood, 
Evergreen  forest ;  which  Boccaccio's  lore 

And  Dryden's  lay  made  haunted  ground  to  me, 

How  have  I  loved  the  twilight  hour  and  thee ! 

The  shrill  cicalas,  people  of  the  pine, 

Making  their  summer  lives  one  ceaseless  song, 

Where  the  sole  echoes,  save  my  steed's  and  mine, 
And  vesper  bells  that  rose  the  boughs  along: 

The  specter  huntsman  of  Onesti's  line, 

His   hell-dogs   and  their   chase,   and   the   fair 
throng 

Which  learned  from  this  example  not  to  fly 

From  a  true  lover, — shadowed  my  mind's  eye. 

LORD  BYRON. 


RAVENNA 

'Tis  MORN,  and  never  did  a  lovelier  day 
Salute  Ravenna  from  its  leafy  bay: 
For  a  warm  eve  and  gentle  rains  at  night 
Have  left  a  sparkling  welcome  for  the  light, 


RAVENNA  367 

And  April,  with  his  white  hands  wet  with  flowers, 
Dazzles  the  bride-maids,  looking  from  the  towers : 
Green  vineyards  and  fair  orchards,  far  and  near, 
Glitter  with  drops ;  and  heaven  is  sapphire  clear, 
And  the  lark  rings  it,  and  the  pine-trees  glow, 
And  odours  from  the  citrons  come  and  go, 
And  all  the  landscape — earth  and  sky  and  sea — 
Breathes  like  a  bright-eyed  face,  that  laughs  out 
openly. 

'T  is  nature  full  of  spirits,  waked  and  loved. 
E'en  sloth,  to-day,  goes  quick  and  unreproved ; 
For    where's    the    living    soul — priest,    minstrel, 

clown, 

Merchant,  or  lord — that  speeds  not  to  tne  town? 
Hence  happy  faces,  striking  through  the  green 
Of  leafy  roads,  at  every  turn  are  seen ; 
And  the  far  ships,  lifting  their  sails  of  white 
Like    joyful    hands,    come    up    with    sca-ttered 

light,— 

Come  gleaming  up,  true  to  the  wished-for  day, 
And  chase  the  whistling  brine,  and  swirl  into  the 

bay. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


FERRARA 


THE    PRISON    OF    TASSO 

FERRARA!  in  thy  wide  and  grass-grown  streets, 
Whose  symmetry  was  not  for  solitude, 
There  seems  as  't  were  a  curse  upon  the  seats 
Of  former  sovereigns,  and  the  antique  brood 
Of  Este,  which  for  many  an  age  made  good 
Its  strength  within  thy  walls,  and  was  of  yore 
Patron  or  tyrant,  as  the  changing  mood 
Of  petty  power  impelled,  of  those  who  wore 
The  wreath  which  Dante's  brow  alone  had  worn 
before. 

And  Tasso  is  their  glory  and  their  shame. 

Hark  to  his  strain !  and  then  survey  his  cell ! 

And  see  how  dearly  earned  Torquato's  fame, 

And  where  Alfonso  bade  his  poet  dwell. 

The  miserable  despot  could  not  quell 

The  insulted  mind  he  sought  to  quench,  and 

blend 

With  the  surrounding  maniacs,  in  the  hell 
Where  he  had  plunged  it.     Glory  without  end 
Scattered  the  clouds  away,  and  on  that  name  at- 
tend 

868 


FERRARA  369 

The  tears  and  praises  of  all  time,  while  thine 
Would  rot  in  its  oblivion,  in  the  sink 
Of  worthless  dust  which  from  thy  boasted  line 
Is  shaken  into  nothing ;  but  the  link 
Thou  formest  in  his  fortunes  bids  us  think 
Of  thy  poor  malice,  naming  thee  with  scorn: 
Alfonso,  how  thy  ducal  pageants  shrink 
From  thee !  if  in  another  station  born, 
Scarce  fit  to  be  the  slave  of  him  thou  mad'st  to 
mourn : 

Thou!  formed  to  eat,  and  be  despised,  and  die, 
Even  as  the  beasts  that  perish,  save  that  thou 
Hadst  a  more  splendid  trough  and  wider  sty ; 
He!  with  a  glory  round  his  furrowed  brow, 
Which  emanated  then,  and  dazzles  now, 
In  face  of  all  his  foes,  the  Cruscan  quire, 
And  Boileau,  whose  rash  envy  could  allow 
No  strain  which  shamed  his  country's  creaking 

lyre, 
That  whetstone  of  the  teeth, — monotony  in  wire! 

Peace  to  Torquato's  injured  shade!  't  was  his 
In  life  and  death  to  be  the  mark  where  Wrong 
Aimed  with  her  poisoned  arrows — but  to  miss. 
O  victor  unsurpassed  in  modern  song! 
Each  year  brings  forth  its  millions;  but  how 

long 
The  tide  of  generations  shall  roll  on, 


370       THEOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

And   not   the    whole    combined    and    countless 

throng 

Compose  a  mind  like  thine?     Though  all  in  one 
Condensed  their  scattered  rays,  they  would  not 
form  a  sun. 

LORD  BYRON. 


TASSO'S  DUNGEON 

How  MIGHT  the  goaded  sufferer  in  his  cell, 
With  nothing  upon  which  his  eyes  might  fall, 
Except  this  vacant  court,  that  dreary  wall, — 
How  might  he  live?  I  asked.     Here  doomed  to 

dwell, 

I  marvel  how  at  all  he  could  repel 
Thoughts  which  to  madness  and  despair  would  call. 
Enter  this  vault ;  the  bare  sight  will  appall 
Thy  spirit,  even  as  mine  within  me  fell, 
Until  I  learned  that  wall  not  always  there 
Had  stood, — 't  was  something  that  this  iron  grate 
Had  once  looked  out  upon  a  garden  fair. 
There  must  have  been  then  here,  to  calm  his  brain. 
Green  leaves,  and  flowers,  and  sunshine; — and  a 

weight 
Fell  from  me,  and  my  heart  revived  again. 

RICHARD  CHENEVIX  TRENCH. 


FEEEAEA  371 


TO  THE  DUKE  ALPHONSO,  ASKING  TO  BE 
LIBERATED 

A  NEW  Ixion  upon  fortune's  wheel, 

Whether  I  sink  profound,  or  rise  sublime, 

One  never-ceasing  martyrdom  I  feel, 

The  same  in  woe,  though  changing  all  the  time. 

I  wept  above,  where  sunbeams  sport  and  climb 

The  vines,  and  through  their  foliage  sighs  the 

breeze, 
I  burned  and  froze,  languished,  and  prayed  in 

rhyme. 

Nor  could  your  ire,  nor  my  own  grief  appease. 
Now  in  my  prison,  deep  and  dim,  have  grown 
My  torments  greater  still  and  keener  far, 
As  if  all  sharpened  on  the  dungeon-stone: 
Magnanimous  Alphonso !  burst  the  bar, 
Changing  my  fate,  and  not  my  cell  alone, 
And  let  my  fortune  wheel  me  where  you  are! 

TOEQUATO  TASSO. 
Tr.  Richard  Henry  Wilde. 


ARQUA 


PETRABCH'S  TOMB 

THEKE  is  a  tomb  in  Arqua ; — reared  in  air, 
Pillared  in  their  sarcophagus,  repose 
The  bones  of  Laura's  lover ;  here  repair 
Many  familiar  with  his  well-sung  woes, 
The  pilgrims  of  his  genius.     He  arose 
To  raise  a  language,  and  his  land  reclaim 
From  the  dull  yoke  of  her  barbaric  foes ; 
Watering  the  tree  which  bears  his  lady's  name 
With  his  melodious  tears,  he  gave  himself  to  fame. 

They  keep  his  dust  in  Arqua,  where  he  died ; 
The  mountain-village  where  his  latter  days 
Went  down  the  vale  of  years;  and  't  is  their 

pride, — 

An  honest  pride, — and  let  it  be  their  praise, 
To  offer  to  the  passing  stranger's  gaze 
His-  mansion  and  his  sepulchre ;  both  plain 
And  venerably  simple,  such  as  raise 
A  feeling  more  accordant  with  his  strain 
Than  if  a  pyramid  formed  his  monumental  fame. 
372 


ARQUA  373 

And  the  soft  hamlet  where  he  dwelt 

Is  one  of  that  complexion  which  seems  made 

For  those  who  their  mortality  have  felt, 

And  sought  a  refuge  from  their  hopes  decayed 

In  the  deep  umbrage  of  a  green  hill's  shade, 

Which  shows  a  distant  prospect  far  away 

Of  busy  cities,  now  in  vain  displayed, 

For  they  can  lure  no  further ;  and  the  ray 

Of  a  bright  sun  can  make  sufficient  holiday, 

Developing  the  mountains,  leaves,  and  flowers, 
And  shining  in  the  brawling  brook,  whereby, 
Clear  as  its  current,  glide  the  sauntering  hours 
With  a  calm  languor,  which,  though  to  the  eye 
Idlesse  it  seem,  hath  its  morality. 
If  from  society  we  learn  to  live, 
'T  is  solitude  should  teach  us  how  to  die; 
It  hath  no  flatterers ;  vanity  can  give 
hollow  aid ;  alone  man  with  his  God  must  strive. 

LORD  BYRON. 


WRITTEN  IN  PETRARCH'S  HOUSE 

PETRARCH  !  I  would  that  there  might  be 
In  this  thy  household  sanctuary 
No  visible  monument  of  thee : 


374       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

The  fount  that  whilom  played  before  thee, 
The  roof  that  rose  in  shelter  o'er  thee, 
The  low  fair  hills  that  still  adore  thee, — 

I  would  no  more ;  thy  memory 
Must  loathe  all  cold  reality, 
Thought-worship  only  is  for  thee. 

They  say  thy  tomb  lies  there  below ; 
What  want  I  with  the  marble  show? 
I  am  content, — I  will  not  go : 

For  though  by  poesy's  high  grace 
Thou  saw'st,  in  thy  calm  resting-place, 
God,  love,  and  nature  face  to  face ; 

Yet  now  that  thou  art  wholly  free, 
How  can  it  give  delight  to  see 
That  sign  of  thy  captivity? 

LORD  HOUGHTON. 


PADUA 


PADUA 

ANTENOR,  from  the  midst  of  Grecian  hosts 

Escaped,  was  able,  safe,  to  penetrate 

The  Illyrian  bay,  and  see  the  interior  realms 

Of  the  Liburni ;  and  to  pass  beyond 

The  source  of  the  Timavus,  issuing  whence, 

With  a  vast  mountain  murmur  from  nine  springs, 

A  bursting  flood  goes  forth,  and  on  the  fields 

Crowds  with  resounding  waters.     Yet  he  here 

Founded  the  walls  of  Padua,  and  built 

The  Trojan  seats,  and  to  the  people  gave 

A  name,  and  there  affixed  the  arms  of  Troy. 

Now,  laid  at  rest,  he  sleeps  in  placid  peace. 

VIRGIL. 
Tr.  C.  P.  Cranch. 


PADUA 

PADTTA,  thou  within  whose  walls 
Those  mute  guests  at  festivals, 
Son  and  Mother,  Death  and  Sin, 
Played  at  dice  for  Ezzelin, 
875 


376       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Till  Death  cried,  "I  win,  I  win!" 
And  Sin  cursed  to  lose  the  wager, 
But  Death  promised,  to  assuage  her, 
That  he  would  petition  for 
Her  to  be  made  Vice-Emperor, 
When  the  destined  years  were  o'er, 
Over  all  between  the  Po 
And  the  eastern  Alpine  snow, 
Under  the  mighty  Austrian. 
Sin  smiled  so  as  Sin  only  can, 
And  since  that  time,  ay,  long  before, 
Both  have  ruled  from  shore  to  shore, 
That  incestuous  pair,  who  follow 
Tyrants  as  the  sun  the  swallow, 
As  repentance  follows  crime, 
And  as  changes  follow  time. 

In  thine  halls  the  lamp  of  learning, 

Padua,  now  no  more  is  burning; 

Like  a  meteor,  whose  wild  way 

Is  lost  over  the  grave  of  day, 

It  gleams  betrayed  and  to  betray : 

Once  remotest  nations  came 

•To  adore  that  sacred  flame, 

When  it  lit  not  many  a  hearth 

On  this  cold  and  gloomy  earth ; 

Now  new  fires  from  antique  light 

Spring  beneath  the  wide  world's  might, 


PADUA  377 

But  their  spark  lies  dead  in  thee, 

Trampled  out  by  tyranny. 

As  the  Norway  woodman  quells, 

In  the  depth  of  tiny  dells, 

One  light  flame  among  the  brakes, 

While  the  boundless  forest  shakes, 

And  its  mighty  trunks  are  torn 

By  the  fire  thus  lowly  born; 

The  spark  beneath  his  feet  is  dead, 

He  starts  to  see  the  flames  it  fed 

Howling  through  the  darkened  sky 

With  myriad  tongues  victoriously, 

And  sinks  down  in  fear ;  so  thou, 

O  tyranny,  beholdest  now 

Light  around  thee,  and  thou  hearest 

The  loud  flames  ascend,  and  f earest : 

Grovel  on  the  earth;  ay,  hide 

In  the  dust  thy  purple  pride ! 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


VENICE 


VENICE 

I  STOOD  in  Venice,  on  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ; 
A  palace  and  a  prison  on  each  hand : 
I  saw  from  out  the  wave  her  structures  rise 
As  from  the  stroke  of  the  enchanter's  wand ; 
A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expand 
Around  me,  and  a  dying  glory  smiles 
O'er  the  far  times  when  many  a  subject  land 
Looked  to  the  winged  Lion's  marble  piles, 
Where  Venice  sate  in  state,  throned  on  her  hun- 
dred isles ! 

She  looks  a  sea  Cybele,  fresh  from  ocean, 
Rising  with  her  tiara  of  proud  towers 
At  airy  distance,  with  majestic  motion, 
A  ruler  of  the  waters  and  their  powers. 
And  such  she  was ;  her  daughters  had  their  dow- 
ers 

From  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  exhaustless  East 
Poured  in  her  lap  all  gems  in  sparkling  show- 

•  ers. 

In  purple  was  she  robed,  and  of  her  feast 
Monarchs  partook,  and  deemed  their  dignity  in- 
creased. 

378 


VENICE  379 

In  Venice  Tasso's  echoes  are  no  more, 
And  silent  rows  the  songless  gondolier; 
Her  palaces  are  crumbling  to  the  shore, 
And  music  meets  not  always  now  the  ear: 
Those  days  are  gone,  but  beauty  still  is  here. 
States  fall,  arts  fade,  but  Nature  doth  not  die, 
Nor  yet  forget  how  Venice  once  was  dear, 
The  pleasant  place  of  all  festivity, 
The  revel  of  the  earth,  the  masque  of  Italy ! 

But  unto  us  she  hath  a  spell  beyond 
Her  name  in  story,  and  her  long  array 
Of  mighty  shadows,  whose  dim  forms  despond 
Above  the  Dogeless  city's  vanished  sway : 
Ours  is  a  trophy  which  will  not  decay 
With  the  Rialto ;  Shylock  and  the  Moor, 
And  Pierre,  cannot  be  swept  or  worn  away, — 
The  keystones  of  the  arch !  though  all  were  o'er, 
For  us  repeopled  were  the  solitary  shore. 

The  beings  of  the  mind  are  not  of  clay ; 
Essentially  immortal,  they  create 
And  multiply  in  us  a  brighter  ray 
And  more  beloved  existence :  that  which  Fate 
Prohibits  to  dull  life,  in  this  our  state 
Of  mortal  bondage,  by  these  spirits  supplied, 
First  exiles,  then  replaces  what  we  hate ; 
Watering  the  heart  whose  early  flowers  have  died, 
And  with  a  fresher  growth  replenishing  the  void. 


380       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

The  spouseless  Adriatic  mourns  her  lord; 
And,  annual  marriage  now  no  more  renewed, 
The  Bucentaur  lies  rotting  unrestored, 
Neglected  garment  of  her  widowhood! 
St.  Mark  yet  sees  his  lion  where  he  stood 
Stand,  but  in  mockery  of  his  withered  power, 
Over  the  proud  place  where  an  emperor  sued, 
And  monarchs  gazed  and  envied  in  the  hour 
When  Venice  was  a  queen  with  an  unequalled  dower. 

The    Suabian    sued,    and    now    the    Austrian 

reigns, — 

An  emperor  tramples  where  an  emperor  knelt; 
Kingdoms  are  shrunk  to  provinces,  and  chains 
Clank  over  sceptered  cities ;  nations  melt 
From  power's  high  pinnacle,  when  they  have 

felt 

The  sunshine  for  a  while,  and  downward  go 
Like  lauwine  loosened  from  the  mountain's  belt : 
O  for  one  hour  of  blind  old  Dandolo ! 
The  octogenarian  chief,  Byzantium's  conquering 

foe. 

Before  St.  Mark  still  glow  his  steeds  of  brass, 
Their  gilded  collars  glittering  in  the  sun; 
But  is  not  Doria's  menace  come  to  pass? 
Are  they  not  bridled?  Venice,  lost  and  won, 
Her  thirteen  hundred  years  of  freedom  done, 
Sinks,  like  a  seaweed,  into  whence  she  rose! 


VENICE  381 

Better  be  whelmed  beneath  the  waves,  and  shun, 
Even  in  destruction's  depth,  her  foreign  foes, 
From  whom  submission  wrings  an  infamous  repose. 

In  youth  she  was  all  glory, — a  new  Tyre, — 
Her  very  byword  sprung  from  victory, 
The  "Planter  of  the  Lion,"  which  through  fire 
And  blood  she  bore  o'er  subject  earth  and  sea; 
Though  making  many  slaves,  herself  still  free, 
And  Europe's  bulwark  'gainst  the  Ottomite : 
Witness  Troy's  rival,  Candia !    Vouch  it,  ye 
Immortal  waves  that  saw  Lepanto's  fight! 
For  ye  are  names  no  time  nor  tyranny  can  blight. 

I  loved  her  from  my  boyhood, — she  to  me 
Was  as  a  fairy  city  of  the  heart, 
Rising  like  water-columns  from  the  sea, 
Of  joy  the  sojourn  and  of  wealth  the  mart; 
And  Otway,  Radcliffe,  Schiller,  Shakespeare's 

art, 

Had  stamped  her  image  in  me,  and  even  so, 
Although  I  found  her  thus,  we  did  not  part, 
Perchance  even  dearer  in  her  day  of  woe 
Than  when  she  was  a  boast,  a  marvel,  and  a  show. 

I  can  repeople  with  the  past, — and  of 
The  present  there  is  still  for  eye  and  thought, 
And  meditation  chastened  down,  enough; 
And  more,  it  may  be,  than  I  hoped  or  sought ; 


388       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

And    of    the    happiest    moments    which    were 

wrought 

Within  the  web  of  my  existence,  some 
From    thee,    fair    Venice!    have    their    colours 

caught ; 

There  are  some  feelings  time  cannot  benumb ; 
Nor  torture  shake,  or  mine  would  now  be  cold  and 

dumb.  LORD  BYRON. 


THE  CARNIVAL 

Or  ALL  the  places  where  the  Carnival 
Was  most  facetious  in  the  days  of  yore, 

For  dance,  and  song,  and  serenade,  and  ball, 
And  masque,  and  mime,  and  mystery,  and  more 

Than  I  have  time  to  tell  now,  or  at  all, 
Venice  the  bell  from  every  city  bore ; 

And  at  the  moment  when  I  fix  my  story 

That  sea-born  city  was  in  all  her  glory. 

They've  pretty  faces  yet,  those  same  Venetians, 
Black  eyes,  arched  brows,  and  sweet  expressions 
.      still; 

Such  as  of  old  were  copied  from  the  Grecians, 
In  ancient  arts  by  moderns  mimicked  ill; 

And  like  so  many  Venuses  of  Titian's 

(The  best's  at  Florence, — see  it,  if  ye  will), 


VENICE  385 

They  look  when  leaning  over  the  balcony, 
Or  stepped  from  out  a  picture  by  Giorgione, 

Whose  tints  are  truth  and  beauty  at  their  best ; 

And  when  you  to  Manf  rim's  palace  go, 
That  picture  (howsoever  fine  the  rest) 

Is  loveliest  to  my  mind  of  all  the  show: 
It  may  perhaps  be  also  to  your  zest, 

And  that's  the  cause  I  rhyme  upon  it  so : 
'T  is  but  a  portrait  of  his  son,  and  wife, 
And  self ;  but  such  a  woman !  love  in  life ! 

LORD  BYRON. 


DUCAL  PALACE 

I  SPEAK  to  time  and  to  Eternity, 

Of  which  I  grow  a  portion,  not  to  man. 

Ye  elements !  in  which  to  be  resolved 

I  hasten,  let  my  voice  be  as  a  spirit 

Upon  you !    Ye  blue  waves  !  which  bore  my  banner, 

Ye  winds !  which  fluttered  o'er  as  if  you  loved  it, 

And  filled  my  swelling  sails  as  they  were  wafted 

To  many  a  triumph !    Thou,  my  native  earth, 

Which  I  have  bled  for,  and  thou  foreign  earth, 

Which   drank   this   willing   blood    from   many    a 

wound ! 

Ye  stones,  in  which  my  gore  will  not  sink,  but 
Reek  up  to  Heaven!     Ye  skies,  which  will  receive 

it! 


384       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Thou  sun !  which  shinest  on  these  things,  and  thou ! 

Who  kindlest  and  who  quenchest  suns ! — Attest ! 

I  am  not  innocent, — but  are  these  guiltless  ? 

I  perish,  but  not  unavenged ;  far  ages 

Float  up  from  the  abyss  of  time  to  be, 

And  show  these  eyes,  before  they  close,  the  doom 

Of  this  proud  city,  and  I  leave  my  curse 

On  her  and  hers  forever !    Yes,  the  hours 

Are  silently  engendering  of  the  day, 

When  she,  who  built  'gainst  Attila  a  bulwark, 

Shall  yield,    and  bloodlessly  and  basely  yield 

Unto  a  bastard  Attila,  without 

Shedding  so  much  blood  in  her  last  defence 

As  these  old  veins,  oft  drained  in  shielding  her, 

Shall  pour  in  sacrifice.     She  shall  be  bought 

And  sold,  and  be  an  appanage  to  those 

Who  shall  despise  her !     She  shall  stoop  to  be 

A  province  for  an  empire,  petty  town 

In  lieu  of  capital,  with  slaves  for  senates, 

Beggars  for  nobles,  panders  for  a  people! 

Then  with  the  Hebrew  in  thy  palaces, 

The  Hun  in  thy  high  places,  and  the  Greek 

Walks  o'er  thy  mart,  and  smiles  on  it  for  his ! 

When  thy  patricians  beg  their  bitter  bread 

In  narrow  streets,  and  in  their  shameful  need 

Make  their  nobility  a  plea  for  pity ! 

LORD  BYRON. 


VENICE  385 

VENICE 

SUN-GIRT  city !  thou  hast  been 
Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen ; 
Now  is  come  a  darker  day, 
And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey, 
If  the  power  that  raised  thee  here 
Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier, 
A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now, 
With  thy  conquest-branded  brow 
Stooping  to  the  slave  of  slaves 
From  thy  throne,  among  the  waves 
Wilt  thou  be,  when  the  sea-mew 
Flies,  as  once  before  it  flew, 
O'er  thine  isles  depopulate, 
And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state, 
Save  where  many  a  palace-gate 
With  green  sea-flowers  overgrown 
Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  own, 
Topples  o'er  the  abandoned  sea 
As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 
The  fisher  on  his  watery  way, 
Wandering  at  the  close  of  day, 
Will  spread  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar 
Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore, 
Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep 
Bursting  o'er  the  starlight  deep, 
Lead  a  rapid  masque  of  death 
O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 


386       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Those  who  alone  thy  towers  behold 

Quivering  through  aerial  gold, 

As  I  now  behold  them  here, 

Would  imagine  not  they  were 

Sepulchres,  where  human  forms, 

Like  pollution-nourished  worms, 

To  the  corpse  of  greatness  cling, 

Murdered,  and  now  mouldering; 

But  if  Freedom  should  awake 

In  her  omnipotence,  and  shake 

From  the  Celtic  anarch's  hold 

All  the  keys  of  dungeons  cold, 

Where  a  hundred  cities  lie 

Chained  like  thee,  ingloriously, 

Thou  and  all  thy  sister  band 

Might  adorn  this  sunny  land, 

Twining  memories  of  old  time 

With  new  virtues  more  sublime ; 

If  not,  perish  thou  and  they, 

Clouds  which  stain  truth's  rising  day 

By  her  sun  consumed  away, 

Earth  can  spare  ye:  while  like  flowers, 

In  the  waste  of  years  and  hours, 

From  your  dust  new  nations  spring 

With  more  kindly  blossoming. 

Perish!  let  there  only  be 

Floating  o'er  thy  hearthless  sea, 

As  the  garment  of  thy  sky 

Clothes  the  world  immortally, 


VENICE  387 

One  remembrance,  more  sublime 
Than  the  tattered  pall  of  Time, 
Which  scarce  hides  thy  visage  wan. 
That  a  tempest-cleaving  swan 
Of  the  songs  of  Albion, 
Driven  from  his  ancestral  streams 
By  the  might  of  evil  dreams, 
Found  a  nest  in  thee ;  and  Ocean 
Welcomed  him  with  such  emotion 
That  its  joy  grew  his,  and  sprung 
From  his  lips  like  music  flung 
O'er  a  mighty  thunder-fit, 
Chastening  terror ;  what  though  yet 
Poesy's  unfailing  river, 
Which  through  Albion  winds  forever, 
Lashing  with  melodious  wave 
Many  a  sacred  poet's  grave, 
Mourn  its  latest  nursling  fled! 
What  though  thou  with  all  thy  dead 
Scarce  can  for  this  fame  repay 
Aught  thine  own, — O,  rather  say, 
Though  thy  sins  and  slaveries  foul 
Overcloud  a  sunlike  soul! 
As  the  ghost  of  Homer  clings 
Round  Scamander's  wasting  springs ; 
As  divinest  Shakespeare's  might 
Fills  Avon  and  the  world  with  light, 
Like  omniscient  power,  which  he 
Imaged  mid  mortality; 


388       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

As  the  love  from  Petrarch's  urn 

Yet  amid  yon  hills  doth  burn, 

A  quenchless  lamp,  by  which  the  heart 

Sees  things  unearthly:  so  thou  art, 

Mighty  spirit;  so  shall  be 

The  city  that  did  refuge  thee. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


AT  VENICE 

IN   THE  PIAZZA  AT   NIGHT 

O  BEAUTIFUL  beneath  the  magic  moon 

To  walk  the  watery  way  of  palaces ! 

O  beautiful,  o'er-vaulted  with  gemmed  blue, 

This  spacious  court!  with  colour  and  with  gold, 

With  cupolas  and  pinnacles  and  points 

And  crosses  multiplex  and  tips  and  balls 

(Wherewith  the  bright  stars  unreproving  mix, 

Nor  scorn  by  hasty  eyes  to  be  confused)  ; 

Fantastically  perfect  this  lone  pile 

Of  Oriental  glory ;  these  long  ranges 

Of  classic  chiselling ;  this  gay  flickering  crowd, 

And  the  calm  Campanile, — beautiful ! 

O,  beautiful! 

My  mind  is  in  her  rest ;  my  heart  at  home 
In  all  around ;  my  soul  secure  in  place, 
And  the  vext  needle  perfect  to  her  poles. 


VENICE  389 

Aimless  and  hopeless  in  my  life,  I  seemed 
To  thread  the  winding  by-ways  of  the  town 
Bewildered,  baffled,  hurried  hence  and  thence, 
All  at  cross  purpose  ever  with  myself, 
Unknowing  whence  or  whither.     Then,  at  once, 
At  a  step,  I  crown  the  Campanile's  top, 
And  view  all  mapped  below;  islands,  lagoon, 
An  hundred  steeples,  and  a  myriad  roofs, 
The  fruitful  champaign,  and  the  cloud-cap t  Alps. 
And  the  broad  Adriatic. 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 


THE  PIAZZA  OF  ST.  MARK  AT  MIDNIGHT 

HUSHED  is  the  music,  hushed  the  hum  of  voices ; 
Gone  is  the  crowd  of  dusky  promenaders, — 
Slender- waisted,  almond-eyed  Venetians, 
Princes  and  paupers.     Not  a  single  footfall 
Sounds  in  the  arches  of  the  Procuratie. 
One  after  one,  like  sparks  in  cindered  paper, 
Faded  the  lights  out  in  the  goldsmiths'  windows. 
Drenched  with  the  moonlight  lies  the  still  Piazza. 

Fair  as  the  palace  builded  for  Aladdin, 
Yonder   St.   Mark  uplifts   its   sculptured   splen- 
dour,— 


390       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Intricate  fretwork,  Byzantine  mosaic, 
Colour  on  colour,  column  upon  column, 
Barbaric,  wonderful,  a  thing  to  kneel  to ! 
Over  the  portal  stand  the  four  gilt  horses, 
Gilt  hoof  in  air,  and  wide  distended  nostril, 
Fiery,  untamed,  as  in  the  days  of  Nero. 
Skyward,  a  cloud  of  domes  and  spires  and  crosses ; 
Earthward,    black   shadows   flung    from   jutting 

stone-work. 

High  over  all  the  slender  Campanile 
Quivers,  and  seems  a  falling  shaft  of  silver ! 
Hushed  is  the  music,  hushed  the  hum  of  voices. 
From  coigne  and  cornice  and  fantastic  gargoyle, 
At  intervals  the  moan  of  dove  or  pigeon, 
Fairily  faint,  floats  off  into  the  moonlight. 
This,  and  the  murmur  of  the  Adriatic, 
Lazily  restless,  lapping  the  mossed  marble, 
Staircase  or  buttress,  scarcely  break  the  stillness. 
Deeper  each  moment  seems  to  grow  the  silence, 
Denser  the  moonlight  in  the  still  Piazza. 
Hark !  on  the  Tower  above  the  ancient  gateway, 
The  twin  bronze  Vulcans,  with  their  ponderous 

hammers, 

Hammer  the  midnight  on  their  brazen  bell  there! 
THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


•VENICE  391 

SAINT  CHRISTOPHER 

IN  THE  narrow  Venetian  street, 

On  the  wall  above  the  garden  gate 

(Within  the  breath  of  the  rose  is  sweet, 

And  the  nightingale  sings  there,  soon  and  late), 

Stands   Saint  Christopher,  carven  in  stone, 
With  the  little  child  in  his  huge  caress, 

And  the  arms  of  the  baby  Jesus  thrown 
About  his  gigantic  tenderness; 

And  over  the  wall  a  wandering  growth 

Of  darkest  and  greenest  ivy  clings, 
And  climbs  around  them,  and  holds  them  both 

In  its  netted  clasp  of  knots  and  rings, 

Clothing  the  saint  from  foot  to  beard 

In  glittering  leaves  that  whisper  and  dance 

To  the  child,  on  his  mighty  arm  upreared, 
With  a  lusty  summer  exuberance. 

To  the  child  on  his  arm  the  faithful  saint 
Looks  up  with  a  broad  and  tranquil  joy; 

Plis  brows  and  his  heavy  beard  aslant 
Under  the  dimpled  chin  of  the  boy, 

Who  plays  with  the  world  upon  his  palm, 

And  bends  his  smiling  looks  divine 
On  the  face  of  the  giant  mild  and  calm, 

And  the  glittering  frolic  of  the  vine. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

He  smiles  on  either  with  equal  grace, — 
On  the  simple  ivy's  unconscious  life, 

And  the  soul  in  the  giant's  lifted  face, 
Strong  from  the  peril  of  the  strife : 

For  both  are  his  own, — the  innocence 

That  climbs  from  the  heart  of  earth  to  heaven, 
And  the  virtue  that  greatly  rises  thence 

Through  trial  sent  and  victory  given. 

Grow,  ivy,  up  to  his  countenance, 

But  it  cannot  smile  on  my  life  as  on  thine ; 

Look,  Saint,  with  thy  trustful,  fearless  glance, 
Where  I  dare  not  lift  these  eyes  of  mine. 

WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS. 


TO  VENICE 

To  THE  much-desired  Venice 
My  thoughts  fly  with  longing 
When,  in  the  clouded  night, 
My  painful  feelings 
Are  oppressed  by  bitter  regret. 

Thus  the  bird  wounded 
By  a  venomous  serpent 
Flies,  flies,  till  wearied  out, 
And,  deadened,  drops 
Beside  its  flowery  nest. 


VENICE  393 

0  most  magnificent  Venice! 
Whoever  has  been  able  to  taste 
The  sweetness  of  love 

Amid  thy  life  of  poesy 

For  eternity  will  not  forget  thee ! 

1  love  thee  in  thy  desolation, 
In  thy  vestment  of  mourning; 
And  in  thy  gondolas 

Which  lose  themselves  among  the  canals, 
Like  an  uncompleted  dream. 

I  love  thee  with  fervent  regret, 
For  thy  beautiful  Past, 
And  for  the  reminiscences 
Of  the  sacred  love, 
And  of  the  being  I  have  lost. 

ALEKSANDRI. 
Tr.  Henry  Stanley. 

THE  GONDOLA 

TILTS  the  gondola  lightly  over  the  wave  like  a 

cradle, 

And  the  chest  thereupon  me  of  a  coffin  reminds. 
Just  so  we,  'twixt  cradle  and  coffin,  go  tilting  and 

floating 
On  Time's  larger  canal  carelessly  on  through  our 

life.         JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON  GOETHE. 
Tr.  J.  S.  Dwight. 


394?       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


SUNRISE  IN  VENICE 

NIGHT  seems  troubled  and  scarce  asleep ; 

Her  brows  are  gathered  in  broken  rest; 

Sullen  old  lion  of  grand  St.  Mark 

Lordeth  and  lifteth  his  front  from  the  dark, 

And  a  star  in  the  east  starts  up  from  the  deep, 

White  as  my  lilies  that  grow  in  the  west ; 

And  the  day  leaps  up  with  a  star  on  his  breast. 

Hist !  men  are  passing  hurriedly. 

I  see  the  yellow  wide  wings  of  a  bark 

Sail  silently  over  my  morning-star. 

I  see  men  move  in  the  moving  dark, 

Tall  and  silent  as  columns  are, — 

Great  sinewy  men  that  are  good  to  see, 

With  hair  pushed  back  and  with  open  breasts ; 

Barefooted  fishermen  seeking  their  boats, 

Brown  as  walnuts  and  hairy  as  goats, — 

Brave  old  water-dogs,  wed  to  the  sea, 

First  to  their  labours  and  last  to  their  rests. 

Ships  are  moving.     I  hear  a  horn ; 

A  silver  trumpet  it  sounds  to  me, 

Deep-voiced  and  musical,  far  a-sea 

Answers  back,  and  again  it  calls. 

'T  is  the  sentinel-boats  that  watch  the  town 


VENICE  395 

All  night,  as  mounting  her  watery  walls, 

And  watching  for  pirate  or  smuggler.     Down 

Over  the  sea,  and  reaching  away, 

And  against  the  east,  a  soft  light  falls, — 

Silvery  soft  as  the  mist  of  morn, 

And  I  catch  a  breath  like  the  breath  of  day. 

The  east  is  blooming!     Yea,  a  rose, 
Vast  as  the  heavens,  soft  as  a  kiss, 
Sweet  as  the  presence  of  woman  is, 
Rises  and  reaches  and  widens  and  grows 
Right  out  of  the  sea,  as  a  blooming  tree; 
Richer  and  richer,  so  higher  and  higher, 
Deeper  and  deeper  it  takes  its  hue; 
Brighter  and  brighter  it  reaches  through 
The  space  of  heaven  and  the  place  of  stars, 
Till  all  is  as  rich  as  a  rose  can  be, 
And  my  rose-leaves  fall  into  billows  of  fire. 
Then  beams  reach  upward  as  arms  from  a  sea ; 
Then  lances  and  arrows  are  aimed  at  me. 
Then  lances  and  spangles  and  spars  and  bars 
Are  broken  and  shivered  and  strewn  on  the  sea ; 
And  around  and  about  me  tower  and  spire 
Start  from  the  billows  like  tongues  of  fire. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 


396       THEOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


A  TOCCATA  OF  GALUPPI'S 

O,  GALUPPI,  Baldassaro,  this  is  very  sad  to  find ! 
I  can  hardly  misconceive  you ;  it  would  prove  me 

deaf  and  blind ; 
But  although  I  take  your  meaning,  'tis  with  such  a 

heavy  mind ! 

Here  you  come  with  your  old  music,  and  here's  all 

the  good  it  brings. 
What,  they  lived  once  thus  at  Venice  where  the 

merchants  were  the  kings, 
Where  St.  Mark's  is,  where  the  Doges  used  to  wed 

the  sea  with  rings? 

Ay,  because  the  sea's  the  street  there;  and  'tis 
arch'd  by  ...  what  you  call  .  .  . 

Shylock's  bridge  with  houses  on  it,  where  they  kept 
the  carnival: 

I  was  never  out  of  England — it's  as  if  I  saw  it  all ! 

Did  young  people  take  their  pleasure  when  the  sea 

•  was  warm  in  May? 
Balls  and  masks  begun  at  midnight,  burning  ever 

to  mid-day 

When  they  made  up  fresh  adventures  for  the  mor- 
row, do  you  say? 


VENICE  397 

Was  a  lady  such  a  lady,  cheeks  so  round  and  lips 
so  red, — 

On  her  neck  the  small  face  buoyant,  like  a  bell- 
flower  on  its  bed, 

O'er  the  breast's  superb  abundance  where  a  man 
might  base  his  head? 

Well,  (and  it  was  graceful  of  them)  they'd  break 

talk  off  and  afford— 
She,  to  bite  her  mask's  black  velvet;  he,  to  finger 

on  his  sword, 
While  you  sat  and  play'd  Toccatas,  stately  at  the 

clavichord? 

What?   Those  lesser  thirds  so  plaintive,  sixths  di- 

minish'd,  sigh  on  sigh, 
Told  them  something?    Those  suspensions,  those 

solutions — 'Must  we  die?' 
Those  commiserating  sevenths — 'Life  might  last! 

we  can  but  try!' 

'Were  you  happy  ?'• — 'Yes.' — 'And  are  you  still  as 

happy?' — 'Yes.    And  you?' 
— 'Then,  more  kisses !' — 'Did  /  stop  them,  when  a 

million  seem'd  so  few?' 
Hark!  the  dominant's  persistence,  till  it  must  be 

answer'd  to! 

So  an  octave  struck  the  answer.  O,  they  praised 
you,  I  dare  say! 


398       THKOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

'Brave  Galuppi!  that  was  music!  good  alike  at 
grave  and  gay! 

I  can  always  leave  off  talking,  when  I  hear  a  mas- 
ter play.5 

Then  they  left  you  for  their  pleasure:  till  in  due 

time,  one  by  one, 
Some  with  lives  that  came  to  nothing,  some  with 

deeds  as  well  undone, 
Death  came  tacitly   and    took  them  where  they 

never  see  the  sun. 

But  when  I  sit  down  to  reason,  think  to  take  my 

stand  nor  swerve, 
While  I  triumph  o'er  a  secret  wrung  from  nature's 

close  reserve, 
In  you  come  with  your  cold  music,  till  I  creep 

through  every  nerve. 

Yes,  you,  like  a  ghostly  cricket,  creaking  where 

a  house  was  burn'd — 
'Dust  and  ashes,  dead  and  done  with,  Venice  spent 

what  Venice  earn'd! 
The  soul,  doubtless,  is  immortal — where  a  soul  can 

be  discern'd. 

'Yours  for  instance,  you  know  physics,  something 

of  geology, 
Mathematics  are  your  pastime;  souls  shall  rise  in 

their  degree; 


VENICE  399 

Butterflies  may  dread  extinction, — you'll  not  die, 
it  cannot  be! 

'As   for   Venice  and  its   people,  merely  born  to 

bloom  and  drop, 
Here  on  earth  they  bore  their  fruitage,  mirth  and 

folly  were  the  crop; 
What  of  soul  was  left,  I  wonder,  when  the  kissing 

had  to  stop? 

'Dust  and  ashes!'  So  you  creak  it,  and  I  want 
the  heart  to  scold. 

Dear  dead  women,  with  such  hair,  too — what's  be- 
come of  all  the  gold 

Used  to  hang  and  brush  their  bosoms?     I   feel 
chilly  and  grown  old. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


VENICE 

ON  rosy  Venice'  breast 
The  gondola's  at  rest ; 
No  fisher  is  in  sight, 
Not  a  light. 

Lone  seated  on  the  strand, 
Uplifts  the  lion  grand 
His  foot  of  bronze  on  high 
Against  the  sky. 


400       THEOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

As  if  with  resting  wing 
Like  herons  in  a  ring, 
Vessels  and  shallops  keep, 
Their  quiet  sleep 

Upon  the  vapoury  bay; 
And  when  the  light  winds  play, 
Their  pennons,  lately  whist, 
Cross  in  the  mist. 

The  moon  is  now  concealed, 
And  now  but  half  revealed, 
Veiling  her  face  so  pale 
With  starry  veil. 

In  convent  of  Sainte-Croix 
Thus  doth  the  abbess  draw 
Her  ample-folded  cape 

Round  her  fair  shape. 

The  palace  of  the  knight, 
The  staircases  so  white, 
The  solemn  porticos 
Are  in  repose. 

Each  bridge  and  thoroughfare 
The  gloomy  statues  there, 
The  gulf  which  trembles  so 
When  the  winds  blow, 


VENICE  401 

All  still,  save  guards  who  pace, 
With  halberds  long,  their  space, 
Watching  the  battled  walls 
Of  arsenals. 

ALFRED  DE  MUSSET. 
Tr.  C.  F.  Bates. 


VENICE 


WHITE  swan  of  cities,  slumbering  in  thy  nest 

So  wonderfully  built  among  the  reeds 

Of  the  lagoon,  that  fences  thee  and  feeds, 

As  sayeth  thy  old  historian  and  thy  guest! 

White  water-lily,  cradled  and  caressed 

By  ocean  streams,  and  from  the  silt  and  weeds 

Lifting  thy  golden  pistils  with  their  seeds, 

Thy  sun-illumined  spires,  thy  crown  and  crest ! 

White  phantom  city,  whose  untrodden  streets 

Are  rivers,  and  whose  pavements  are  the  shifting 

Shadows  of  palaces  and  strips  of  sky ; 

I  wait  to  see  thee  vanish  like  the  fleets 

Seen  in  mirage,  or  towers  of  cloud  uplifting 

In  air  their  unsubstantial  masonry. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


408       THBOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


VENETIAN    SUNRISE 

How  OFTEN  have  I  now  outwatched  the  night 
Alone  in  this  grey  chamber  toward  the  sea 
Turning  its  deep-arcaded  balcony ! 

Round  yonder  sharp  acanthus-leaves  the  light 

Comes  stealing,  red  at  first,  then  golden  bright ; 
Till  when  the  day-god  in  his  strength  and  glee 
Springs  from  the  orient  flood  victoriously, 

Each  cusp  is  tipped  and  tongued  with  quivering 
white. 

The  islands  that  were  blots  of  purple  bloom, 
Now  tremble  in  soft  liquid  luminous  haze, 
Uplifted  from  the  sea-floor  to  the  skies; 

And  dim  discerned  erewhile  through  roseate  gloom, 
A  score  of  sails  now  stud  the  waterways, 
Ruffling  like  swans  afloat  from  paradise. 

JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS, 


VENICE 

VENICE,  thou  Siren  of  sea-cities,  wrought 
By  mirage,  built  on  water,  stair  o'er  stair, 
Of  sunbeams  and  cloud-shadows,  phantom-fair, 
With    naught  of    earth    to    mar    thy    sea-born 
thought ! 


•  > 


VENICE  403 

Thou  floating  film  upon  the  wonder-fraught 
Ocean  of  dreams !  Thou  hast  no  dream  so  rare 
As  are  thy  sons  and  daughters,  they  who  wear 
Foam-flakes   of   charm   from   thine   enchantment 

caught ! 

O  dark  brown  eyes !  O  tangles  of  dark  hair ! 
O  heaven-blue  eyes,  blonde  tresses  where  the  breeze 
Plays  over  sun-burn'd  cheeks  in  sea-blown  air ! 
Firm  limbs  of  moulded  bronze !  frank  debonair 
Smiles  of  deep-bosom'd  women !   Loves  that  seize 
Man's  soul,  and  waft  her  on  storm-melodies ! 
JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS. 


FROM  "LOVE  IN  ITALY" 

"TRUE  love  should  overwhelm  the  Muse's  power ;' 
This,  then,  was  thy  rebuke  one  glorious  night 
When  we  were  last  in  Venice.   All  the  while 
Were  silent  answers  wafted  from  the  isle 
That  holds  the  Adriatic  tide  at  bay ; 
Which,  else,  would  at  the  ebb  breed  slow  decay 
Where  now  is  life  and  beauty; — at  its  height 
Would  deluge  all.    No  city  then  would  rise 
To  smile  in  palace,  pinnacle,  and  tower 
And  calm  reflections  of  unclouded  skies. 


404}       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Art  is  the  lover's  Lido:  passion's  rage, 
Fierce  to  destroy,  by  Beauty's  wise  control 
Works  for  the  world  a  wondrous  heritage, — 
Immortal  types  of  the  immortal  Soul. 

JOHN  HAKL INGHAM, 


IN  THE  SMALL  CANALS 

Love,  felt  from  far,  long  sought,  scarce  found, 

On  thee  I  call ; 
Here  where  with  silvery  silent  sound 

The  smooth  oars  fall ; 

Here  where  the  glimmering  water-ways, 

Above  yon  stair, 
Mirror  one  trembling  lamp  that  plays 

In  twilight  air! 

What  sights,  what  sounds,  O  poignant  Love, 

Ere  thou  wert  flown, 
Quivered  these  darksome  waves  above, 

In  darkness  known ! 

I  dare  not  dream  thereof ;  the  sting 

Of  those  dead  eyes 
Is  too  acute  and  close  a  thing 

For  one  who  dies. 


VENICE  405 

Only  I  feel  through  glare  and  gloom, 

Where  yon  lamp  falls, 
Dim  spectres  hurrying  to  their  doom, 

And  Love's  voice  calls: 

'Twas  better  thus  toward  death  to  glide, 

Soul-full  of  bliss, 
Than  with  long  life  unsatisfied 

Life's  crown  to  miss. 

JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS. 


A  MASQUE  OF  VENICE 

(A  DREAM) 

NOT  a  stain, 

IN  the  sun-brimmed  sapphire  cup  that  is  the  sky- 
Not  a  ripple  on  the  black  translucent  lane 
Of  the  palace-walled  lagoon. 

Not  a  cry 

As  the  gondoliers  with  velvet  oar  glide  by, 
Through  the  golden  afternoon. 

From  this  height, 

Where  the  carved,  age-yellowed  balcony  o'er  juts 
Yonder  liquid,  marble  pavement,  see  the  light 
Shimmer  soft  beneath  the  bridge 

That  abuts 


406       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

On  a  labyrinth  of  water-ways  and  shuts 
Half  their  sky  off  with  its  ridge. 

We  shall  mark 

All  the  pageant  from  this  ivory  porch  of  ours, 
Masques  and  jesters,  mimes  and  minstrels,  while 

we  hark 
To  their  music  as  they  fare, 

Scent  their  flowers 
Flung    from   boat   to    boat    in    rainbow    radiant 

showers 
Through  the  laughter-ringing  air. 

See!  they  come, 
Like   a   flock   of   serpent-throated,   black-plumed 

swans, 

With  the  mandoline,  the  viol,  and  the  drum, 
Gems  afire  on  arms  ungloved, 

Fluttering  fans, 

Floating  mantles  like  a  great  moth's  streaky  vans 
Such  as  Veronese  loved. 

But  behold 

In  their  midst  a  white  unruffled  swan  appears. 
One  strange  barge  that  snowy  tapestries  enfold, 
White  its  tasseled,  silver  prow. 

Who  is  here? 

Prince  of  Love  in  masquerade  or  Prince  of  Fear, 
Clad  in  glittering  silken  snow? 


VENICE  407 

Cheek  and  chin 

Where  the  mask's  edge  stops   are  of  the  hoar- 
frost's hue, 

And  no  eyebeams  seem  to  sparkle  from  within 
Where  the  hollow  rings  have  place. 

Yon  gay  crew 

Seem  to  fly  with  him,  he  seems  ever  to  pursue. 
'Tis  our  sport  to  watch  the  race. 

At  his  side 

Stands  the  goldenest  of  beauties ;  from  her  glance, 
From  her   forehead,   shines   the    splendour   of   a 

bride, 
And  her  feet  seem  shod  with  wings 

To  entrance, 

For  she  leaps  into  a  wild  and  rhythmic  dance, 
Like  Salome  at  the  King's. 

'Tis  his  aim 

Just  to  hold,  to  clasp  her  once  against  his  breast, 
Hers  to  flee  him,  to  elude  him  in  the  game. 
Ah,  she  fears  him  overmuch ! 

Is  it  jest — 

Is  it  earnest?  a  strange  riddle  lurks  half -guessed 
In  her  horror  of  his  touch. 

For  each  time 

That  his  snow-white  fingers  reach  her,  fades  some 
ray 


408       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

From  the  glory  of  her  beauty  in  its  prime ; 

And  the  knowledge  grows  upon  us  that  the  dance 

Is  no  play 

'Twixt  the  pale,  mysterious  lover  and  the  fay — 
But  the  whirl  of  fate  and  chance. 

Where  the  tide 

Of  the  broad  lagoon  sinks  plumb  into  the  sea, 
There  the  mystic  gondolier  hath  won  his  bride. 
Hark,  one  helpless,  stifled  scream! 

Must  it  be? 
Mimes  and  minstrels,  flowers  and  music,  where  are 

ye?  ^ 

Was  all  Venice  such  a  dream  ? 

EMMA  LAZARUS. 


THE  DECAY  OF  VENICE 


THE  glowing  pageant  of  my  story  lies, 
A  shaft  of  light,  across  the  stormy  years, 
WTien,  'mid  the  agony  of  blood  and  tears, 

Or  pope  or  kaiser  won  the  mournful  prize, 

Till  I,  the  fearless  child  of  ocean,  heard 

The  step  of  doom,  and  trembling  to  my  fall, 

Remorseful  knew  that  I  had  seen  unstirred 
Proud  Freedom's  death,  the  tyrant's  festival ; 


VENICE  409 

Whilst  that  Italia  which  was  yet  to  be, 
And  is,  and  shall  be,  sat,  a  virgin  pure, 
High  over  Umbria  on  the  mountain  slopes, 

And  saw  the  failing  fires  of  liberty 
Fade  on  the  chosen  shrine  she  deemed  secure, 
When  died  for  many  a  year  man's  noblest  hopes. 

SILAS  WEIR  MITCHELL. 


VENETIAN  NIGHT 

HER  eyes  in  the  darkness  shone,  in  the  twilight 

shed 
By  the  gondola  bent  like  the  darkness  over  her 

head. 

Softly  the  gondola  rocked,  lights  came  and  went; 
A  white  glove  shone  as  her  black  fan  lifted  and 

leant 
Where  the  silk  of  her  dress,  the  blue  of  a  bittern's 

wing, 

Rustled  against  my  knee,  and,  murmuring 
The  sweet  slow  hesitant  English  of  a  child, 
Her  voice  was  articulate  laughter,  her  soul  smiled. 
Softly  the  gondola  rocked,  lights  came  and  went ; 
From  the  sleeping  houses  a  shadow  of  slumber 

leant 

Over  our  roads  like  a  wing,  and  the  dim  lagoon, 
Rustling  with  silence,  slumbered  under  the  moon. 


410       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Softly  the  gondola  rocked,  and  a  pale  light  came 

Over  the  waters,  mild  as  a  silver  flame ; 

She  lay  back,  thrilling  with  smiles,  in  the  twilight 

shed 
By  the  gondola  bent  like  the  darkness  over  her 

head; 

I  saw  her  eyes  shine  subtly,  then  close  awhile : 
I  remember  her  silence,  and,  in  the  night,  her  smile. 

ARTHUR  SYMONS. 


DAWN  AT  VENICE 

ONE  burnished  cloud  first  turned  a  jagged  prow- 
The  waking  water  nestled  deep  among 
Her  murky  gondolas,  that  bow,  on  bow 
Freighted  with  shadows  at  the  molo  swung. 

Soon  palace  and  canal  paled  into  sight, 
Fainting  as  watchers  whose  long  vigil  wanes ; 
Till  Dawn's  approach  across  the  waves  of  night 
Flushed  the  rose  blood  in  sleeping  Venice5  veins. 

Then  up  the  dazzling  steps  that  lead  to  God, 
One  radiant  sunbeam  and  a  lone  white  dove 
Santa  Maria's  holy  threshold  trod, 
A  shrine  of  morning  lit  by  Light  and  Love! 


VENICE  411 

Loud  warned  the  chime  to  mass   o'er  quay  and 

home, 

Calling  soft  flocks  of  doves  to  greet  the  day 
'Mid  sculptured  saints  and  angels  round  the  dome 
While  market-women  followed  in  to  pray. 

MARTHA  GILBERT  DICKINSON. 


VENICE 

OUT  of  the  land  and  in  the  sea, 
Venice  is  all  the  world  to  me. 

All  is  quaint  and  queer  and  quiet, 
Naught  of  trade's  annoying  riot ; 
Neigh  of  nag  and  noise  of  car 
From  this  region  banished  are; 
Only  horses  of  Saint  Mark, 
Motionless  in  metal  dark ; 
Harmless  necessary  cat 
Dodges  not  the  fell  brickbat; 
Here  no  curs  disturb  our  ease. 
Nor  communicate  their  fleas ; 
Naught  is  heard  but  roar  of  tongue 
Gay  and  careless  crowds  among, 
And  the  clangs  of  bells  at  night, 
Ringing  till  the  east  is  bright, 
And  the  tinkle  of  guitar 


THEOUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

To  the  sound  of  voices  far, 
In  the  amorous  serenade 
Under  latticed  window  played. 

Crooked,  stony,  filthy  alleys, 
Black  and  graceful  darting  galleys, 
Boatmen  chaffing,  swearing,  steering 
With  a  skill  no  danger  fearing ; 
Every  colour  under  heaven, 
Rivaling  the  rainbow  seven, 
On  the  stone  or  stuccoed  walls 
When  the  slanting  sunshine  falls ; 
Or  forbidding  shadows  lurk 
In  the  alleys,  somber,  murk, 
Or  the  bashful,  crescent  moon, 
Ripening  into  roundness  soon, 
Lights  the  water's  gentle  ripple 

Which  the  evening  breezes  stipple. 
*  +  «  * 

Windows  showing  shell  and  coral, 
Prints  of  ballet  girls  immoral, 
Antique  paintings  made  to  order, 
Cotton  scarfs  with  gorgeous  border, 
Silver  filigree  and  paste, 
Fan*s  for  every  age  and  taste, 
Ivories  in  rare  devices 
Which  they  sell  for  twenty  prices, 
Glass  of  every  form  and  hue 
Which  the  ancient  workmen  blew. 


VENICE 

If  a  letter  one  should  ask,  it 
Mounts  by  means  of  cord  or  basket, 
Saving  postman  flights  of  stairs 
While  he  minds  his  own  affairs. 

Water-babies  here  abound, 
In  canals  retired  found ; 
To  a  floating  board  they  cling 
Tethered  by  the  mother's  string. 
Beggar,  dirty,  picturesque,  so 
Lazy  slumbering  al  fresco; 
Though  his  last  of  coin  is  spent,  he 
Feels  the  dolce  far  niente, 
Dreading  water  without  doubt, 
Administered  inside  or  out ; 
He,  as  cicerone,  tells 
Horrors  of  the  dungeon  cells 
Underneath  the  Bridge  of  Sighs, 
Opening  the  tourists'  eyes ; 
Warbling  as  he  points  the  scene 
Of  the  deadly  guillotine, 
Or  the  hole  where  Byron  slept, 

And  where  better  men  have  wept. 
*  *  *  * 

In  the  spacious  council  chamber 
I  on  mental  ladder  clamber, 
And  with  due  historic  halo 
Restore  the  face  of  Faliero ; 
And  when  no  spectator's  by, 


414       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

In  the  lion's  jaw  I  shy 

Denunciation  to  the  State 

Of  my  landlord  whom  I  hate. 

Or  in  dreams,  if  funds  are  low, 

I  to  the  Rialto  go, 

Where  good  Shylock  lends  to  me 

An  old  clo'  security; 

While  he's  sorting  out  the  heap 

I  at  Jessica  take  a  peep ; 

Or  at  palace  window  high, 

As  I  lazily  float  by, 

See  the  Desdemona  blond, 

With  pathetic  glances  fond, 

Waving  'kerchief  to  the  Moor 

As  he  slams  the  great  front  door. 

Though  no  more  thy  ship  of  state, 
With  doges  on  her  decks  who  wait, 
Rules  the  sea  with  wedding-ring 
And  maidens  orange  garlands  bring ; 
Though  the  Lion  of  Saint  Mark, 
Cracked  and  weather-stained  and  dark, 
From  his  column  has  descended, 
His  despotic  sway  long  ended, 
Teeth  well  filed  and  claws  close  grated, 
Roar,  like  Bottom's,  mitigated, 
Tucked  by  keepers  in  museum, 
Can't  be  seen  unless  we  fee  'em ; 
Fortune,  tiptoe  on  the  world, 


VENICE  415 

Let  my  sails  be  ever  furled 
Near  thy  shrine ;  here  let  my  eyes 
Gaze  in  ever  new  surprise; 
While  the  breaker  constant  combs 
View  thy  palaces  and  domes 
Which  against  the  sunset  sky 
Into  sudden  darkness  die. 

Fallen  mistress  of  the  sea, 
Let  me  cast  my  lot  with  thee ! 
Far  from  earth,  down  in  the  sea, 
Venice,  thou  art  the  land  for  me ! 

IRVING  BROWNE. 


ON  THE  ZATTERE 

ONLY  to  live,  only  to  be 
In  Venice,  is  enough  for  me. 
To  be  a  beggar,  and  to  lie 
At  home  beneath  the  equal  sky, 
To  feel  the  sun,  to  drink  the  night, 
Had  been  enough  for  my  delight ; 
Happy  because  the  sun  allowed 
The  luxury  of  being  proud 
Not  to  some  only ;  but  to  all 
The  right  to  lie  along  the  wall. 
Here  my  ambition  dies ;  I  ask 


416       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

No  more  than  some  half -idle  task, 
To  be  done  idly,  and  to  fill 
Some  gaps  of  leisure  when  I  will. 
I  care  not  if  the  world  forget 
That  it  was  ever  in  my  debt ; 
I  care  not  where  its  prizes  fall ; 
I  long  for  nothing,  having  all. 
The  sun,  each  morning,  on  his  way, 
Calls  for  me  at  the  Zattere ; 
I  wake  and  greet  him,  I  go  out, 
Meet  him,  and  follow  him  about; 
We  spend  the  day  together,  he 
Goes  to  bed  early ;  as  for  me, 
I  make  the  moon  my  mistress,  prove 
Constant  to  my  inconstant  love. 
For  she  is  coy  with  me,  will  hie 
To  my  arms  amorously,  and  fly 
Ere  I  have  kissed  her ;  ah !  but  she, 
She  it  is,  to  eternity, 
I  adore  only ;  and  her  smile 
Bewilders  the  enchanted  isle 
To  more  celestial  magic,  glows 
At  once  the  crystal  and  the  rose. 
The  crazy  lover  of  the  moon, 
I  hold  her,  on  the  still  lagoon, 
Sometimes  I  hold  her  in  my  arms ; 
'Tis  her  cold  silver  kiss  that  warms 
My  blood  to  singing,  and  puts  fire 
Into  the  heart  of  my  desire. 


VENICE  417 

And  all  desire  in  Venice  dies 

To  such  diviner  lunacies ; 

Life  dreams  itself ;  the  world  goes  on, 

Oblivious,  in  oblivion; 

Life  dreams  itself,  content  to  keep 

Happy  immortally,  in  sleep. 

AETHUR  SYMONS. 


VENETA  MARINA 

THE  masts  rise  white  to  the  stars, 

White  on  the  night  of  the  sky, 

Out  of  the  water's  night, 

And  the  stars  lean  down  to  them  white. 

Ah!  how  the  stars  seem  nigh; 

How  far  away  are  the  stars ! 

r 

And  I,  too,  under  the  stars, 

Alone  with  the  night  again, 

And  the  water's  monotone ; 

I  and  the  night  alone, 

And  the  world  and  the  ways  of  men 

Farther  from  me  than  the  stars. 

ABTHUB  SYMONS. 


418       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 


AT  THE  DOGANA 


NIGHT,  and  the  silence  of  the  night, 

In  Venice ;  far  away,  a  song ; 

As  if  the  lyric  water  made 

Itself  a  serenade ; 

As  if  the  water's  silence  were  a  song 

Sent  up  into  the  night. 

Night,  a  more  perfect  day, 

A  day  of  shadows  luminous, 

Water  and  sky  at  one,  at  one  with  us ; 

As  if  the  very  peace  of  night, 

The  older  peace  than  heaven  or  light, 

Came  down  into  the  day. 

ARTHUR  SYMONS, 


ON  THE  LIDO 

ON  her  still  lake  the  city  sits 
While  bark  and  boat  beside  her  flits, 
Nor  hears,  her  soft  siesta  taking, 
The  Adriatic  billows  breaking. 

ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH. 


VENICE  419 


LIDO 

I  RODE  one  evening  with  Count  Maddalo 

Upon  the  bank  of  land  which  breaks  the  flow 

Of  Adria  towards  Venice :  a  bare  strand 

Of  hillocks,  heaped  from  ever-shifting  sand, 

Matted  with  thistles  and  amphibious  weeds, 

Such  as  from  earth's  embrace  the  salt  ooze  breeds, 

Is  this,  an  uninhabited  sea-side, 

Which  the  lone  fisher,  when  his  nets  are  dried, 

Abandons ;  and  no  other  ob j  ect  breaks 

The  waste,  but  one  dwarf  tree  and  some  few  stakes 

Broken  and  unrepaired,  and  the  tide  makes 

A  narrow  space  of  level  sand  thereon, 

Where  't  was  our  wont  to  ride  while  day  went 

down. 

This  ride  was  my  delight.    I  love  all  waste 
And  solitary  places,  where  we  taste 
The  pleasure  of  believing  what  we  see 
Is  boundless,  as  we  wish  our  souls  to  be; 
And  such  was  this  wide  ocean,  and  this  shore 
More  barren  than  its  billows :  and  yet  more 
Than  all,  with  a  remembered  friend  I  love 
To  ride  as  then  I  rode ; — for  the  winds  drove 
The  living  spray  along  the  sunny  air 
Into  our  faces ;  the  blue  heavens  were  bare, 
Stripped  to  their  depths  by  the  awakening  north; 
And  from  the  waves  sound  like  delight  broke  forth 


420       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

Harmonising  with  solitude,  and  sent 
Into  our  hearts  aerial  merriment. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


THE  JEWS'  CEMETERY 

LIDO  OF  VENICE 

A  TRACT  of  land  swept  by  the  salt  sea-foam, 

Fringed  with  acacia  flowers,  and  billowy  deep 
In  meadow-grasses,  where  tall  poppies  sleep, 

And  bees  athirst  for  wilding  honey  roam. 

How  many  a  bleeding  heart  hath  found  its  home 
Under  these  hillocks  which  the  sea-mews  sweep ! 
Here  knelt  an  outcast  race  to  curse  and  weep, 

Age  after  age,  'neath  heaven's  unanswering  dome. 

Sad  is  the  place,  and  solemn.    Grave  by  grave, 
Lost  in  the  dunes,  with  rank  weeds  overgrown, 
Pines  in  abandonment ;  as  though  unknown, 

Uncared  for,  lay  the  dead,  whose  records  pave 
This  path  neglected ;  each  forgotten  stone 

Wept  by  no  mourner  but  the  moaning  wave. 

JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS. 


TORCELLO 


TORCELLO 

SHORT  sail  from  Venice  sad  Torcello  lies, 
Deserted  island,  low  and  still  and  green. 
Before  fair  Venice  was  a  bride  and  queen 
Torcello's  court  was  held  in  fairer  guise 
Than  Doges  knew.    To-day  death-vapours  rise 
From  fields  where  once  her  palaces  were  seen, 
And  in  her  silent  towers  that  crumbling  lean 
Unterrified  the  brooding  swallow  flies. 

0  once-loved  friend,  who  dost  in  vain  implore 
My  presence,  thou  art  like  Torcello's  land. 
Thy  wasted  life  to  me  seems  life  no  more. 
With  all  its  beauty  death  goes  hand  in  hand, 

1  shrink  from  thee,  as  on  its  blighted  strand 
Torcello's  ghosts  might  turn  and  fly  the  shore. 

HELEN  HUNT. 


421 


ASOLO 


BROWNING  AT  ASOLO 

THIS  is  the  loggia  Browning  loved, 

High  on  the  flank  of  the  friendly  town ; 

These  are  the  hills  that  his  keen  eye  roved, 
The  green  like  a  cataract  leaping  down 
To  the  plain  that  his  pen  gave  new  renown. 

There  to  the  West  what  a  range  of  blue ! — 
The  very  background  Titian  drew 

To  his  peerless  Loves.  O  tranquil  scene ! 
Who  than  thy  poet  f  ondlier  knew 

The  peaks  and  the  shore  and  the  lore  between  ? 

See!  yonder's  his  Venice — the  valiant  Spire, 

Highest  one  of  the  perfect  three, 
Guarding  the  others :  the  Palace  choir, 
The  Temple  flashing  with  opal  fire — 

Bubble  and  foam  of  the  sunlit  sea. 

Yesterday  he  was  part  of  it  all — 

Sat  here,  discerning  cloud  from  snow 
In  the  flush  of  the  Alpine  afterglow, 
Or  mused  on  the  vineyard  whose  wine-stirred 
row 

Meets  in  a  leafy  bacchanal. 


ASOLO 

Listen  a  moment — how  oft  did  he! — 

To  the  bells  from  Fontalto's  distant  tower 

Leading  the  evening  in     ...     ah,  me ! 

Here  breathes  the  whole  soul  of  Italy 

As  one  rose  breathes  with  the  breath  of  the 
bower. 

Sighs  were  meant  for  an  hour  like  this, 

When  joy  is  keen  as  a  thrust  of  pain. 
Do  you  wonder  the  poet's  heart  would  miss 
This  touch  of  rapture  in  Nature's  kiss, 
And  dream  of  Asolo  over  again? 

"Part  of  it  yesterday,"  we  moan  ? 

Nay,  he  is  part  of  it  now,  no  fear. 
What  most  we  love  we  are  that  alone. 
His  body  lies  under  the  Minster  stone, 

But  the  love  of  the  warm  heart  lingers  here. 
ROBEET  UNDERWOOD  JOHNSON. 


FAREWELL  TO  ITALY 


LINES  ON  LEAVING  ITALY 

ONCE  more  among  the  old  gigantic  hills 

With  vapours  clouded  o'er; 
The  vales  of  Lombardy  grow  dim  behind, 

The  rocks  ascend  before. 

They  beckon  me,  the  giants,  from  afar, 

They  wing  my  footsteps  on ; 
Their  helms  of  ice,  their  plumage  of  the  pine, 

Their  cuirasses  of  stone. 

My    heart    beats    high,   my   breath   comes    freer 
forth,— 

Why  should  my  heart  be  sore? 
I  hear  the  eagle's  and  the  vulture's  cry, 

The  nightingale's  no  more. 

Where  is  the  laurel,  where  the  myrtle's  blossom? 

Bleak  is  the  path  around: 

Where  from  the  thicket  comes  the  ringdove's  coo- 
ing? 

Hoarse  is  the  torrent's  sound. 
424 


FAREWELL  TO  ITALY 

Yet  should  I  grieve,  when  from  my  loaded  bosom 

A  weight  appears  to  flow? 
Methinks  the  Muses  come  to  call  me  home 

From  yonder  rocks  of  snow. 

I  know  not  how,  but  in  yon  land  of  roses 

My  heart  was  heavy  still, 
I  startled  at  the  warbling  nightingale, 

The  zephyr  on  the  hill. 

They  said  the  stars  shone  with  a  softer  gleam, — 

It  seemed  not  so  to  me; 
In  vain  a  scene  of  beauty  beamed  around, 
My  thoughts  were  o'er  the  sea. 

ADAM  GOTTLOB  OEHLENSCHLAGER. 

Tr.  Anon. 


FAREWELL  TO  ITALY 

I  LEAVE  thee,  beauteous  Italy !  no  more 
From  the  high  terraces,  at  even-tide, 
To  look  supine  into  thy  depths  of  sky, 
Thy  golden  moon  between  the  cliff  and  me, 
Or  thy  dark  spires  of  fretted  cypresses 
Bordering  the  channel  of  the  milky  way. 
Fiesole  and  Valdarno  must  be  dreams 
Hereafter,  and  my  own  lost  Affrico 
Murmur  to  me  but  in  the  poet's  song. 


426       THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

I  did  believe  (what  have  I  not  believ'd?), 

Weary  with  age,  but  unoppress'd  by  pain, 

To  close  in  thy  soft  clime  my  quiet  day 

And  rest  my  bones  in  the  mimosa's  shade. 

Hope !  Hope !  few  ever  cherish'd  thee  so  little ; 

Few  are  the  heads  thou  hast  so  rarely  rais'd; 

But  thou  didst  promise  this,  and  all  was  well. 

For  we  were  fond  of  thinking  where  to  lie 

When  every  pulse  hath  ceas'd,  when  the  lone  heart 

Can  lift  no  aspiration — reasoning 

As  if  the  sight  were  unimpair'd  by  death, 

Were  unobstructed  by  the  coffin-lid, 

And  the  sun  cheer 'd  corruption !    Over  all 

The  smiles  of  Nature  shed  a  potent  charm, 

And  light  us  to  our  chamber  at  the  grave. 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 


FAREWELL  TO  ITALY 

WE  lingered  at  Domo  d'Ossola — 
Like  a  last,  reluctant  guest — 

Where  the  gray-green  tide  of  Italy 
Flows  up  to  a  snowy  crest. 

The  world  from  that  Alpine  shoulder 
Yearns  toward  the  Lombard  plain — 

The  hearts  that  come,  with  rapture, 
The  hearts  that  go,  with  pain. 


FAREWELL  TO  ITALY 

Afar  were  the  frets  of  Milan ; 

Below,  the  enchanted  lakes; 
And — was  it  the  mist  of  the  evening, 

Or  the  mist  that  the  memory  makes  ? 

We  gave  to  the  pale  horizon 
The  Naples  that  evening  gives ; 

We  reckoned  where  Rome  lies  buried, 
And  we  felt  where  Florence  lives. 

And  as  Hope  bends  low  at  parting 
For  a  death-remembered  tone, 

We  searched  the  land  that  Beauty 
And  Love  have  made  their  own. 

We  would  take  of  her  hair  some  ringlet, 
Some  keepsake  from  her  breast, 

And  catch  of  her  plaintive  music 
The  strain  that  is  tenderest. 

So  we  strolled  in  the  yellow  gloaming 
(Our  speech  with  musing  still) 

Till  the  noise  of  the  militant  village 
Fell  faint  on  Calvary  Hill. 

And  scarcely  our  mood  was  broken 

Of  near-impending  loss 
To  find  at  the  bend  of  the  pathway 

A  station  of  the  Cross. 


THROUGH  ITALY  WITH  THE  POETS 

And  up  through  the  green  aisle  climbing 
(Each  shrine  like  a  counted  bead), 

We  heard,  from  above,  the  swaying 
And  mystical  chant  of  the  creed. 

Then  the  dead  seemed  the  only  living, 
And  the  real  seemed  the  wraith, 

And  we  yielded  ourselves  to  the  vision 
We  saw  with  the  eye  of  Faith. 

Then  she  said,  "Let  us  go  no  farther : 
'T  is  fit  that  we  make  farewell 

While  forest  and  lake  and  mountain 
Are  under  the  vesper  spell." 

As  we  rested,  the  leafy  silence 

Broke  like  a  cloud  at  play, 
And  a  browned  and  burdened  woman 

Passed,  singing,  down  the  way. 

'T  was  a  song  of  health  and  labor, — 

Of  childlike  gladness,  blent 
With  the  patience  of  the  toiler 

That  tyrants  call  content. 

"Nay,  this  is  the  word  we  have  waited," 
I  said,  "that  a  year  and  a  sea 

From  now,  in  our  doom  of  exile, 
Shall  echo  of  Italy." 


FAREWELL  TO  ITALY  429 

Just  then  what  a  burst  from  the  bosquet — 
As  a  bird  might  have  found  its  soul ! 

And  each  by  the  halt  of  the  heart-throb 
Knew  't  was  the  rossignol. 

Then  we  drew  to  each  other  nearer 
And  drank  at  the  grey  wall's  verge 

The  sad,  sweet  song  of  lovers, — 
Their  passion  and  their  dirge. 

And  the  carol  of  Toil  below  us 

And  the  psean  of  Prayer  above 
Were  naught  to  the  song  of  Sorrow, 

For  under  the  sorrow  was  Love. 


Alas!  for  the  dear  remembrance 

We  chose  for  an  amulet: 
The  one  that  is  left  to  keep  it — 

Ah!  how  can  he  forget? 

ROBERT  UNDERWOOD  JOHNSON, 


DAY     AND    TO    I 
OVERDUE. 


&&&-* 

"^Hirwr; 


LD  21-95m-7,'37 


YB  72718 


U.  c 


392287 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


